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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:46:45 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15444-8.txt b/15444-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d553047 --- /dev/null +++ b/15444-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4374 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The City and the World and Other Stories +by Francis Clement Kelley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The City and the World and Other Stories + +Author: Francis Clement Kelley + +Release Date: March 23, 2005 [EBook #15444] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. Shiffer and the +PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + +_The City and the World_ +and Other Stories + +BY + +FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY + + +Author of + +"The Last Battle of the Gods," "Letters to Jack." +"The Book of Red and Yellow." Etc., Etc. + + +SECOND EDITION + + +EXTENSION PRESS +223 W. Jackson Boulevard +CHICAGO + +1913 + + + + +PREFACE + + +These stories were not written at one time, nor were they intended +for publication in book form. For the most part they were +contributions to _Extension Magazine_, of which the author is Editor, +and which is, above all, a missionary publication. Most of them, +therefore, were intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories. +In fact, there was not even a remote idea in the author's mind when he +wrote them that some day they might be introduced to other readers +than those reached by the magazine itself. In fact, he might almost +say that the real object of most of the stories was to present a +Catholic missionary appeal in a new way. Apparently the stories +succeeded in doing that, and a few of them were made up separately in +booklets and used for the propaganda work of The Catholic Church +Extension Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so the +writer consented to allow the stories to appear in book form; hoping +that, thus gathered together, his little appeals for what he considers +the greatest cause in the world may win a few new friends to the ideas +which gave them life and name. + +FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY. + +CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, July 30, 1913. + + + + +[Illustration: "Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a +cold fear."] + + + + + CONTENTS + + TITLES Page + +The City and the World 1 +The Flaming Cross 20 +The Vicar-General 44 +The Resurrection of Alta 53 +The Man with a Dead Soul 67 +The Autobiography of a Dollar 74 +Le Braillard de la Magdeleine 82 +The Legend of Deschamps 84 +The Thousand Dollar Note 89 +The Occasion 109 +The Yankee Tramp 119 +How Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint 127 +The Unbroken Seal 136 +Mac of the Island 144 + + + + +THE CITY AND THE WORLD + + +Father Denfili, old and blind, telling his beads in the corner of the +cloister garden, sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought him from his +confessional in the great church to the bench where day after day he +kept his sightless vigil over the pond of the goldfish, turned back at +the sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili's face, thought he +must have fancied the sigh. For sadness came alien to the little +garden of the Community of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous gem +of a little garden under its square of Roman sky. The dripping of the +tiny fountain, tinkling like a bit of familiar music, and the swelling +tones of the organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered beneath +the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged their murmurings into the +peacefulness of San Ambrogio, that Father Tomasso, just from the +novitiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have dreamed Father +Denfili's sigh. For what could trouble the old man here in San +Ambrogio on this, the greatest day of the Community? + +For to-day Father Ramoni had returned to Rome. Even as Father Tomasso +passed the fountain a group of Fathers and novices were gathering +around one of the younger priests, who still wore his fereoula and +wide-brimmed hat, just as he had entered from Via Paoli. The +newcomer's eyes traveled joyously over his breathless audience, +calling Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news. + +"Yes, it is true," he was saying. "I have just come from the audience. +Father General and Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariate +of State, but I came straight home to tell you. His Holiness was most +kind, and Father Ramoni was not a mite abashed, even in the presence +of the Pope. When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up and gave +him a seat. 'Tell me all about your wonderful people and your +wonderful work,' he said. And Father Ramoni told him of the thousands +he had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing of God, to do +so much. The Holy Father asked him every manner of question. He was +full of enthusiasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has done. He +is the greatest man in Rome to-day, is Ramoni. He will be honored by +the Holy See. The Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day for +our Community." The little priest paused for breath, then hastened on. +"Rome knows that our Father Ramoni has come back," he cried, "and Rome +has not forgotten ten years ago." + +"Was it ten years that Father Ramoni passed in South America?" a tall +novice asked Father Tomasso. + +"Ten years," said Father Tomasso. "He was the great preacher of Rome +when the old General"--he nodded toward the cloister corner where +Father Denfili prayed--"sent him away from Rome. No one knew why. His +fame was at its height. Men and women of all the city crowded the +church to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four years old. But +Father Denfili sent him away to Marqua, commanding the Superior of our +Order out there to send him to those far-off mountain people of whom +the papers were telling at that time. I did not know Father Romani +well. I was a novice at the time. But I knew that he did not want to +go from Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. Now, see what +has happened. He has converted over one-third of that people, and the +rest are only waiting for missionaries." + +"And the work is all Father Ramoni's?" the novice asked. + +"All." Father Tomasso drew him a little farther from the group that +still listened to the little priest who had come from the Vatican. +"Father Ramoni found that the people had many Christian traditions and +were almost white; but it was he who instilled the Faith in their +hearts. There must be thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now," he +continued proudly, "and sooner or later, all novices will have to go +out there. Father Ramoni has made a splendid Prefect-Apostolic. No +wonder they have summoned him to Rome for consultation. I have +heard"--he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoulder to where +Father Denfili sat on the bench by the pond--"that it is certain that +Marqua is to be made a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops. +There is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they are training some of +the natives to be catechists. I tell you, Brother Luigi, missionary +history has never chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni has +wrought." + +From behind them came the rising voice of the little priest, bubbling +into laughter. "And as I came through the Pincio all that I heard was +his name. I had to wait for a duchessa's carriage to pass. She was +telling an American woman of the times when Father Ramoni had preached +at San Carlo. 'His words would convert a Hindu,' she was saying. And +the Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to tell me that he had +heard that Father Ramoni will be one of the Cardinals of the next +Consistory. Is it not wonderful?" + +The murmur of their responses went across the garden to old Father +Denfili. Father Tomasso, crossing the path with the novice, suddenly +saw a strange look of pain on the old priest's face, and started +toward him just as the gate to the cloister garden swung back, +revealing a picture that held him waiting. Four men--a great Roman +prelate, the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and Father Pietro, +Ramoni's secretary--were coming into the garden. Of the four Father +Ramoni stood out in the center of the group as vividly as if a +searchlight were playing on his magnificent bigness. His deep black +eyes, set in a face whose strength had been emphasized by its exposure +to sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mood. His mouth, large, +expressive, the plastic mouth of the orator, was curving into a smile +as he gave heed to the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shook +his head as the great man, oblivious of their coming before a crowd of +intent watchers, continued the words he had been saying on Via Paoli. + +"And the Holy See is about to make your Marqua into a Province. Is it +not wonderful, Father Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift to +the people you converted? And yet to me it is more wonderful that you +wish to go back. Why do you not stay here? You, a Roman, would +advance." + +"Not now, Monsignore," the missionary answered quickly. They were +passing the group near the fountain, going toward the bench where +Father Denfili sat. Ramoni's secretary, a thin, serious-visaged priest +of about the same age as his Superior, with bald head and timid, +shrinking eyes, took with the greatest deference the cloak and hat +Father Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old General. +The prelate answered Ramoni. "But you are right, of course," he +admitted. "It is best that you return. The Church needs you there now. +But later on--_chi lo sa_? You are to preach Sunday afternoon at San +Carlo? I shall be there to hear you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah, +you do well here! '_Filius urbis et orbis_--son of the city and the +world.' It's a great title, Ramoni!" + +They had come in front of the bench where Father Denfili told his +beads. The prelate turned to the old General of San Ambrogio with +deference. "Is it not so, Father?" he asked. But Father Denfili raised +his sightless eyes as if he sought to focus them upon the group before +him. Father Ramoni, laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joy +congealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He turned away +angrily, then recovered himself in time. Father Denfili was no longer +on the bench beside the pond. He was groping his way back to the +chapel. + +It was a month before the Consistory met to nominate the new hierarchy +for Marqua. It had been expected that the first meeting would end in +decisive action and that, immediately afterward, the great missionary +of the Community of San Ambrogio would return with increased authority +and dignity to his charge. But something--one of those mysterious +"somethings" peculiar to Rome--had happened, and the nominations were +postponed. + +In the month that Father Ramoni remained in Rome he had tasted the +fruits of his old popular success. On his first Sunday at home he +preached in San Carlo as well as ever--better than ever. And the awed +crowd he looked down on at the end of his sermon took away from the +church the tidings of his greater power. From that time nearly every +moment was taken by the demands of people of position and authority, +who wished to make the most of him before he went back to Marqua. He +scarcely saw his brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he went +to the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no time to loiter in +the garden, and the story of the conversion of the people of Marqua +was left to the quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of his +Superior's great work, till Father Tomasso and Brother Luigi prayed to +be given the opportunity to be Ramoni's servants in the far-away land +of the western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister, +he did not avoid Father Denfili. The old blind priest seemed to meet +him everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where +he preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies. Once +Ramoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during a +conference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden +gave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, even +though Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw. + +On the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detained +in the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressed +his desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili on +his way to the reception-room. While Father Ramoni, summoning his +secretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of the +South American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped along +the wall till he reached the General's office. He had come to the door +when he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on the +white faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutely +at the letter the former held. He heard the General call Father +Tomasso. "Take this to Father Pietro, my son," he said. Then he +listened to the younger priest's retreating footsteps. + +Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of the +General's tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubled +excitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was just +leaving. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he was +returning to their case the photographs of Marqua. Tomasso laid the +letter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding his +visitor a gay good-bye, turned back. + +[Illustration: "I can't take it," he was sobbing, "it's a mistake, a +terrible mistake."] + +Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope. He +read it with puzzled wonder rising to his eyes. Before he came to its +end he was on his feet. + +"No! No!" he cried. "It is impossible. It is a mistake." + +Father Ramoni turned quickly. The man who had been his faithful +servant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him. "What is a +mistake, Pietro?" he asked, coming to the table. + +"The Consistory," Father Pietro stammered, "the Consistory has made a +mistake. They have done an impossible thing. They have mixed our +names. This letter to the General--this letter--" he pointed to the +document on the table "--says that I have been made Archbishop of +Marqua." + +Ramoni took the letter. As he read it he knew what Pietro had not +known. The news was genuine. The name signed at the letter's end +guaranteed that. Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of the +blow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain that +would stay. He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who +sat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands. + +"I can't take it," he was sobbing; "I am not able. It's a mistake, a +terrible mistake." + +Ramoni put his hand on the other man's head. "It is true, Pietro," he +said. "You are Archbishop of Marqua. May God bless you!" + +But he could say no more. Pietro was still weeping when Ramoni went +away, crossing the cloister on his way to his cell, where, with the +door closed behind him, he fought the battle of his soul. + + +II. + +In the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat looking dully at the +softened tones of the wall, trying to evolve some order of thought +from the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment had plunged +his mind. It was late in the night before the situation began to +outline itself dimly. + +His first thought was, curiously enough, not of himself directly, but +of the people out in Marqua who were anxiously looking for his return +as their leader, confident of his appointment to the new +Archbishopric. He could not face them as the servant of another man. +From the crowd afar his thoughts traveled back to the crowd on the +Pincio--the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. He would +go no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with that +cynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved for +his servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome ten +years before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he had +converted, Pietro, the Consistory--everything. For that black and +bitter night the Church, which he had loved and reverenced, looked to +him like the root of all injustice. The more he thought of the slight +that had been put upon him, the worse it became, till the thought +arose in him that he would leave the Community, leave Rome, leave it +all. After long hours, anger had full sway in the heart of Father +Ramoni. + +At midnight he heard the striking of the city's clocks through the +windows, the lattices of which he had forgotten to close. The sound of +the city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who had +returned with him to San Ambrogio from his first audience with the +Holy Father--"_Filius urbis et orbis_." How bitterly the city had +treated him! + +A knock sounded at his door. He walked to it and flung it open. His +anger had come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only a +hand at the door-casing, groping with a blind man's uncertainty. Then +he saw the old General. + +In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man. +Instantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, of +those following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of +the priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearful +was his anger as he held it back with the rein of years of +self-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling. + +"May I enter, my son?" he asked. + +"You may enter." + +The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him with +glowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him +he did not flinch. + +"You are disappointed, my son?" the old man asked with a gentleness +that Ramoni could not apprehend, "and you can not sleep?" + +Ramoni's anger swept the question aside. "Have you come here, Father +Denfili," he cried, "to find out how well you have finished the +persecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quite +consoled. It is finished to-night." His anger, rushing over the gates, +beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was +a passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when +the old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been +put upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of +this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the +old man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of +patience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke. + +"You did not pray, my son?" + +"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined. +I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel." + +"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God, +and God alone; even if there be a thousand present." + +"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you +think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was +not God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know +it." + +"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is +right for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was +consulted, and I advised Pietro." + +"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other. + +"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old +voice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever +before I must say it to you to-night." + +The old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find the +beads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid the +string across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see he +kept tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were +turned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could +see, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a +movement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may be +given a finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili was +looking where only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of +another. + +"Son of the city and the world," he said. "I heard Monsignore call you +that, and he was right. A son of the city and of the world you are; +but alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than +you have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have not +long to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you +to-night." Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "I +received you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you +better than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God +had given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew +before any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, +though I did not know what it was that you would do. I was a man with +little, but I could admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to lay +before Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make +_you_ my great work. That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua. +I am the Apostle of Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear +that I would be cheated of my reward." + +Ramoni turned to him. "Your reward? I do not understand." + +"My reward," the old man repeated. "I watched over you, I instructed +you, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking +you, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in your +soul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that +there was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what +the world had to offer you--the old, old conflict between the city +and the world. I always feared it. All unknown to you I watched the +fight, and I saw that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent you +to Marqua." + +The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that +streamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. "I am afraid, my son," +the voice came again, "that you never knew the city--well called the +Eternal--where with all the evil the world has put within its walls +the good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, +and you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no other +right to existence at all. There is only one royalty that may live in +Rome. We, who are of the true city, know that. + +"And you, too, might have been of the city. The power of saving +thousands was given to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one. +I had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. Only a saint +may live to be praised and save himself--in Rome. + +"When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as your +merit, your salvation. Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was +born. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if you could +make it? Alas, you can not! Then it will have to grow on Pietro's +pain. + +"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you. You want +to go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work.' You +think that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor of +the city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are +not yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have +forgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world an +apostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an +apostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?" + +The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. "What +would you take back to Marqua?" he demanded. "Nothing but your purple +and your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in the +midst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of +their sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you +might have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you, +for the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that you +may learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of a +people." + +Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man's +words died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in another +room. Once more the old man took up his speech. + +"They are Pietro's steps," he said. "All night long I have heard you +both. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthy +to bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted to +bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again +if he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in +loving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you were +leading to Him." + +The old man arose. He put out his hand to grope his way back to the +door. It touched Ramoni, sitting rigid. He did not stir. The hand +reached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind +man to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a word he followed the +other. When he had overtaken him he laid his hand gently on the blind +man's arm and led him back to his cell. + +When he came back the door of the chapel was open. Ramoni, going +within, found Pietro there, prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoni +knelt at the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not pray. He +only gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. And while he knelt the Great +Plan unfolded itself to him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who has +traveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, he +could see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. There +came back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, his +ceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant villages, his zeal, +his solicitude to save his superior for the more serious work of +preaching. Pietro had been jealous of the slightest infringement on +his right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Before God the +conquest of Marqua had been Pietro's first, since he it was who had +toiled and claimed no reward. + +A great peace suddenly mantled the troubled soul of Father Ramoni, and +with it a great love for the old General whose hand had struck him. He +thought of the painting hanging near where he knelt--"Moses Striking +the Rock." The features of Father Denfili merged into the features of +the Law Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the rock, barren and +unprofitable. He fell on his face, and then his prayer came: + +"Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if there be aught of living +water within, let me give one drop for thirsty souls yet ere I am +called." + +He could utter no other prayer. + +Morning found both master and servant, now servant and master, before +the altar where both were servants. + + +III. + +It was fifteen years later when the brethren of the little Community +of San Ambrogio gathered in their chapel to sing the requiem over +their founder and first General, Father Denfili, who died, old and +blind, after twenty years of retirement into obscurity. But there +were more than his brethren there. For all those years he had +occupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in the +chapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, the +brethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them many +distinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation that +his obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates, +priests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were those +who had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint. + +But there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity and +sanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning when +he said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of Father +Denfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward Via +Paoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altar +of the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that needed +all their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the City +and the World. + + + + +THE FLAMING CROSS + +I. + + +It was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose from +a table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator for +their hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightful +to all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, to +give the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days, +and keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was old +enough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's was +a fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or +society had grown half so precious for any one of these three men as +were the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had bound +to him. + +The difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked. +Thornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short, +fat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. His +stubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's had +found its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he had +always been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neither +of his friends liked many of his actions, nor the stories told of +him; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silently +sorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville and +Callovan waited and hoped for "old Thornton"; but the wait had been +long and the hope very much deferred. + +Callovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair of the Milesian spoke +for him as clearly as the blue-gray eye. He shaved clean and he looked +clean. An ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him to +almost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was ruddy and fresh. Two +years younger than Thornton, he yet looked younger by five. And +Callovan, like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs promised. + +Orville was tall and straight. The ghost of a black mustache was on +his lip. His hair was scanty, and was parted carefully. His dress +showed taste, but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well groomed +and particular, without obtrusiveness in any one of the points. He was +just a little taller than Callovan; but he was grayer and a great deal +more thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even for an intimate; but +the print was large, if the text was puzzling. He looked to be "in" +the world, but who could say if he were "of" it? + +All three of these friends were very rich. Thornton had made his money +within five years--a lucky mining strike, a quick sale, a move to the +city, speculation, politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-fire +story that the other friends never cared to hear the details of. +Callovan inherited his wealth from his hard-fisted old father, who had +died but a year before. Orville was the richest of the three. He had +always been rich. His father had died a month before he was born. His +mother paid for her only child with her life. Orville's guardian had, +as soon as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur's Preparatory School and +then in the College; but he was a careful and wise man, this guardian, +so, though plenty of money was allowed him, yet the college +authorities had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing boy and +youth in amounts that could neither spoil nor starve him. It was good +for Orville that the guardian had been thus wise and the college +authorities thus prudent. He himself was generous and kind-hearted; by +nature a spendthrift, but by training just a bit of a miser. He had +learned a little about values during these school and college days. + +"Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville," said the doorman, when the +three moved to leave the club. + +"Very unlike your careful Michael," remarked Callovan. + +Orville came at once to the defense of his exemplary chauffeur. "I +gave him permission to go to St. Mary's to-night for confession," he +said. "Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to confession every +Saturday night and is a weekly communicant. I can stand a little +tardiness once a week for the sake of having a man like Michael +around." + +"Good boy is Michael," put in Thornton. "I wish I could get just a +small dose of his piety. Candidly, I am awfully lonesome sometimes +without a little of it. + +A page came running up. "Telephone for you, Mr. Orville," he said; and +at almost the same moment the doorman called out: "Your car is here +now, sir." Orville went to the telephone booth, but returned in a +moment. + +"Lucky for us that we waited," he said. "It was Marion who called. She +is at the Congress, and she wants me to take her home. She came +down-town with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and that +worthless pup has gone off and left her. She knew that I was here +to-night, and 'phoned, hoping to catch me. We will pass around by the +hotel and take her back with us." + +When the friends came out, Michael was standing with his hand on the +knob of the big limousine's door. "I am sorry if I made you wait, +sir," he said. "I had a fainting spell in the church and could not get +away sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart attack; but I am all +right now." + +Orville answered kindly. "I am sorry you were ill, Michael, but we are +glad enough that you were late. That ill wind for you blew good to us, +for we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been on time we +would have missed her. Go around to the Congress first." + +The car glided down Michigan avenue to the hotel, where Marion was +already waiting in the ladies' lobby. She looked just what she was, +the pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. Tonight her cheeks +were flushed and her hand was very unsteady. Orville noticed both when +she entered the car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancée. He +knew that she was usually full of life and spirit; but this midnight +gaiety worried him, and all the more that he loved the girl sincerely. + +Marion talked fast and furiously, railing continually at her brother; +but she averted her face from Orville as much as possible and spoke to +Thornton. Orville said nothing after he had greeted her. + +The car sped on, passed the club again and down toward the bridge at +the foot of the avenue. Marion was scolding at Thornton as they +approached the bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staring +straight ahead, so only he saw Michael's hand make a quick movement +toward the controller, and another movement, at the same time, as if +his foot were trying to press on the brake; but both movements seemed +to fall short and Michael's head dropped on his breast. Alarmed, +Orville looked up. He had a swift glimpse of a flashing red light. A +chain snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from Thornton, and +a scream from Marion. Then, in an instant, he felt the great weight +falling, and a flood of cold water poured through the open window of +the car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of water against it +made this impossible. The car filled and the door moved. He was pushed +out. He thought of saving Marion; but all was dark around him. He +tried to call, but the water choked him. He could only think a prayer, +before he seemed to be falling asleep. Everything was fading away +before him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; so only +vaguely did he realize the tragedy that had fallen upon him. + + +II. + +When light and vision came back to Orville, he was standing up and +vaguely wondering why. Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side by +side. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All were changed; but +Orville could not understand just in what the change consisted. In +Thornton and Marion the change was not good to look at, and Orville +somehow felt that it was becoming more marked as he gazed. Michael was +almost transformed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on his +face. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville naturally smiled back at +them. Thornton was frowning, and Marion looked horrible in her +terror. Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced about him +and saw thousands of men and women, all smiling or frowning, like his +companions. Several seemed to be about to begin a journey and were +moving away from the groups, most of them alone. Some had burdens +strapped to their shoulders and bent under them as they walked. Those +who were not departing were preparing for departure; but Orville could +see no guides about. All the travelers appeared to understand where +they were to go. + +Orville watched the groups divide again and again, wondering still, +not knowing the reason for the division. Some took a road that led +upward to a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome road. Orville +could see men and women far above on that road, dragging themselves +along painfully. Another road led down into a valley; but Orville +could not see deep into that valley, because of a haze which hung over +it. He looked long at the road before he noticed letters on a rock +which rose up like a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that later +he would go over and read them. But first he wanted to ask questions. + +"Michael, what does all this mean?" Orville said; all the time +marveling that it was to his servant he turned for information. + +Michael still smiled, and answered: "It means, sir, that we are +dead." + +Orville was astonished that he felt neither shocked nor startled. +"Dead? I do not quite understand, Michael. You are not joking?" + +"No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over the bridge a minute ago. +Our bodies are in the river now, but we are here." + +"Where?" asked Orville. + +Michael answered, "That I do not know, sir, except that we are in The +Land of the Dead." + +"But you seem to know a great deal, Michael," said Orville. + +"Yes," answered Michael; "I died a minute before you, sir, so I came +earlier. I was dead on my seat when we struck the chain and broke it. +One learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can you see +anything at the top of that mountain?" + +Orville looked up and saw a bright light before him on the very summit +and seemingly at the end of the road. As he gazed it took the form of +a Flaming Cross. + +"I see a Cross on fire, Michael," he said. Michael answered simply: +"Thank God." + +"I can see a Flaming Cross, too," said Callovan, speaking for the +first time. "I can see it, and what is more, I am going up to it; let +us not delay an instant"; and Callovan began to gird his +strange-looking garment about him for the climb. + +Then Orville knew that he himself was drawn toward that Flaming Cross. +There was a something urging him on. His whole being was filled with +a desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared quickly for the +ascent. + +"Wait a moment, sir," said Michael. "Do the others see nothing on the +mountain?" + +Thornton and Marion, still frowning, were looking down into the haze +of the valley. They were paying no attention to their friends. + +"Come, let us go," said Thornton to the girl, as he pointed to the +road which led down into the valley. + +"No, no," said Michael, "not there. Look up at the mountain. What do +you see?" + +Both Marion and Thornton glanced upward. "I see nothing," said Marion. + +"I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant-looking," said Thornton. +"Come, Marion, let us go at once." + +Orville, alarmed, called out: "Marion, you will surely come with me." + +The frown on her face changed to a look of awful sadness, but she put +her hand into Thornton's while saying to Orville: "I can not go there +with you--not upward. I must enter the valley with him." She moved +away, her hand still in Thornton's. Orville watched them go, only +wondering why he had no regrets. + +"Michael," he said, "I loved her on earth. Why am I unmoved to see her +leave me?" + +[Illustration: "But when their feet touched the road, they turned and +looked their terror."] + +But Michael answered, "It is not strange in The Land of the Dead. +There are stranger partings here; but all of them are like +yours--tearless for those who see the Cross." + +Thornton and Marion by this time had entered the valley road and were +on the other side of the rock gateway. But when their feet touched the +road they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they recoiled and +struck viciously at each other. Then they parted. With the wide road +between them they went down into the valley and the haze together. + +Orville read the words on the rock gateway, for now they stood out so +that he could see plainly, and they were: "THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING." +"Michael," he said, "what does it mean?" + +Michael answered, "She could not see the Cross here, who would not see +it on earth. It repelled him, who so often had repelled it in life." + + +III. + +Neither Orville nor Callovan was at all moved by the tragedy each had +witnessed. Orville's love for Marion was as if it had never existed. +The friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slightest assert +itself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the overpowering sense of +another feeling--a feeling of victory for some Great Friend or +Cause--left the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men knew +that Thornton and Marion had passed out of their ken forever, and in +the future would be to them as if they had not been. All three made +haste to go toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. Then +upon Orville's shoulders he felt a heavy burden, but still heavier was +one which was bending Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight, +without a weight upon him. + +"It will be hard to climb to the Cross with these burdens, Michael," +said Orville. + +"Yes, sir, it will," said Michael, "but you must carry them. You +brought them here. They are the burdens of your wealth. They will +hamper you; but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be well." + +"Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches?" asked both Orville and +Callovan in the same breath. + +"They are your riches," replied Michael. "I have no burden, for I had +no riches. Poor was I on earth, and unhampered am I now for the climb +to the Cross. Look yonder." He pointed to a man standing at the fork +of the roads. His burden was weighing him to the earth. "He brought it +all with him, sir," continued Michael; "in life he gave nothing to +God. Now he must carry the burden up to the Cross, or leave it and go +the other road. He sees the Cross, too; but it will take ages for him +to reach it." + +The man had thrown down the burden and now started to climb without +it. But unseen hands lifted it back to his shoulders. Men and women +going to the other road beckoned him to throw it away again and come +with them; but he had seen the Cross and, keeping his eyes fixed upon +it, he crawled along with his burden upon him, inch by inch, up the +mountain. + +"In life he was good and faithful, but he did not understand that +riches were given him to use for a purpose and that he was not, +himself, the purpose," said Michael. "It was a miracle of grace that +he could see the Cross at all." + +"I knew that man in life," said Callovan. "But why is not my burden +heavier than his? I was richer by far." + +"You lightened it by more charity than he," said Michael, "but you did +not lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all that +you had, you would now be even as I am--free of all burden." + +"I wish I had known that," said Callovan. + +"But, alas! you did know," replied Michael. "We all knew these things. +We are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man +with the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on your +way, yet he has been dead now for a year." + +Callovan looked up and gasped: "My father!" + +"Yes; your father," said Michael. "You had more charity than he, and +when you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw the +Cross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith." + +"Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to his +side?" asked Callovan. + +"I think," replied Michael, "that you may; but you could have helped +him better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probably +may go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross, +and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain." + +They had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orville +could read the words which marked the mountain road: "THE ROAD OF PAIN +AND HOPE." + +"But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it," said Michael. "We +must leave you here, sir," he said to Callovan, turning to him. "You +have far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than my +master's, and then you must be lonely for a while." + +"But why must I be lonely?" asked Callovan. + +"For many reasons, sir," replied Michael. "You will know them all as +you go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few things +now. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin to +you. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimage +to the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to +enjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him alone. Then you have +few to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life did +not and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but the +only prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. One +priest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He +was a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at your +burial, and again, too, before the climb is over." + +"But, Michael," said Callovan, "I gave a great deal to many good +works. Will none of the gifts count for me?" + +"Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but," answered Michael, +"the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they were +to God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land of +Death. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer your +question." + +Callovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork of +the roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw +the Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on the +ground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountain +road, knowing that the burden must go with him. + +"I have seen that man before," said Orville. "They gave him a +reception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist--yet, look +at his burden." + +"Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road without +Ending," said Michael. "He has many amongst those who can hate for +eternity to hate him." + +Suddenly from the multitude of the dead came men and women, who looked +with hatred upon the old man, and surrounded him on every side and +menaced him with threatening fists. "Beast!" shouted one. "I saw the +Cross in life, when I was young. The unbelief your work taught denies +me the sight of it in death. I curse you!" + +"One year in the schools you founded," wailed another, "lost me my +God." + +"Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of the Cross, you +hypocrite?" cried another. "You have, in the name of a false science, +encouraged by your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You shall +not go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even though you might have to +climb till Judgment. You shall go with us." + +Screaming in terror, the old man was dragged away. They could hear his +voice in the distance, as the multitude drove him along The Road +without Ending. + +"Alas, I understand--now," sadly said Callovan. He gazed at his +friends with some of the pain of his coming solitude in his eyes. +"Good-bye. Shall we meet again?" + +Michael answered: "We shall meet again. Your pain may be very great; +but there is an end. He who sets his foot on this Road has a promise +which makes even pain a blessing." + +Callovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael climbed faster than +he. + +"Michael," said his master, "I am greatly favored. He was much better +in life than I, yet now he climbs alone." + +"You are not favored, sir," answered Michael. "Many pray for you, +because you loved the poor and sheltered and aided them. He has all +that is his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is yours. Do +not forget that we are marching toward the Sun of Justice." + +And so they went on, over The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville's feet +were weary and bleeding. His hands and knees were bruised by falls. +The adders stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain chilled him +and warm blasts oppressed him. He was one great pain; but within a +voice that was his own kept saying: "I go to the Cross, I go to the +Cross," and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for an +instant; but the thought brought him no longing to return. His breast +was swelling and seemed bursting with a wonderful great Love that made +him content with every tortured step. He even seemed to love the pain; +and he could not stop, nor could he rest for the Flaming Cross that +was drawing him on. He longed for it with a burning and intense +desire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devotion, and his whole +being cried out: "More pain, O Lord! more pain, if only I may sooner +reach the Cross!" + +But Michael tried to ease his master's burden. + +At last Orville said to him: "How many ages have passed since I died?" + +"You have been dead for ten minutes, sir," answered Michael. "The +minutes are as ages in the Land of Death until you reach the Cross, +and then the ages are as minutes." + + +IV. + +They kept toiling on, but had known no darkness along The Road of Pain +and Hope. Orville's hand sought Michael's, and it opened to draw him +closer. "Michael, my brother," he said, "may you tell me why there is +no night?" + +Michael smiled again when Orville called him "brother" and answered: +"Because, my master, on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair; +but it is always night along The Road without Ending." + +"Can you tell me, Michael, my brother," said Orville, "Why my eyes +suffer more keenly than all the rest?" + +"Because," said Michael, "your eyes, master, have offended most in +life, and so are now the weakest." + +"But my hands have offended, too," said Orville, "and behold, they are +already painless and cured of the bruises." + +"Your hands are beautiful and white, master," said Michael, "and were +little punished, because they were often outstretched in charity and +in good deeds." + +They had come to the brink of a Chasm which it seemed impossible to +cross, but they hoped, for they knew no despair. Multitudes of people +were before them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at the +other side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by unseen hands, and +carried across the Chasm. Some Power there was to bear them which +neither Orville nor Michael understood. Many, however, had waited +long, while some were taken quickly. Every hand was outstretched +toward the Cross, and it could easily be seen that waiting was a +torture worse than the bruises. + +"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "it is harder to suffer the wait than +the pain." + +"Yes, master," Michael replied, "but this is The Chasm of Neglected +Duties. We must stay until those we have fulfilled may come to bear us +across. The one who goes first will await the other on the opposite +side." + +"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "you must wait for me. I have few good +deeds and few duties well done." + +Even as he spoke, Michael's face began to shine and his eyes were +melting. Orville looked and saw a little child with great wings, and +beautiful beyond all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with the +deepest love and longing. Her voice was like the music of a harp, and +she spoke but one little word: + +"Daddy!" + +"Bride! My little Bride," whispered Michael. + +Orville knew her, Michael's first-born child, who had died in infancy. +He remembered her funeral. In pity for poor Michael, and feeling a +duty toward his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church and +to the grave, and had borne the expenses of her burial. His friends +wondered at such consideration for one so far beneath him. + +"Daddy," whispered the beautiful spirit, "I am to bring you across, +and master, too. God sent me. And, daddy, there are millions of +children who could bring their parents over quickly, if they had only +let them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who gave me life, +baptism and Heaven. Had I lived only a minute, it would have been +worth it. And, daddy, mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for you +both." + +Then the beautiful child touched and supported them, and lo! they were +wafted across The Chasm of Neglected Duties: Michael, because he +followed the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacrament to fulfil +the law of God; Orville, because he had shown mercy and recognition of +his servant's claim upon him. + +Without understanding why, Orville found himself repeating over and +over again the words: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain +mercy." Michael heard him and turned to say: "Yes, master, and +'Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God'! How well it +was for us that we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when we +came to The Chasm of Neglected Duties." + + +V. + +"Michael," said Orville, after a long and tiresome climb over a steep +part of the Road, "these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I have +toiled hard and have made but very little progress." + +"I know, master," said Michael, "but these rocks are the little faults +of our lives. Such rocks cover the mountain at this spot and are +constantly growing more numerous, yet one meets only one's own. The +Plain is not far away now. We are just reaching it, and these stones +are the only way to it." + +"What Plain is it, Michael?" asked Orville. + +"It is called, master," said Michael, "The Plain of Sinful Things. It +is between us and the foot of the Cross." + +"Is it hard to pass over, Michael?" again asked Orville. + +"It is very hard to most men, sir," said Michael. "No one knows how +hard who has not been on it; and yet when one has been over, one +remembers nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross is +reached." + +They stood now at the top of the stones, and on the edge of the vast +Plain, which lay white and scorching before them. Multitudes, as far +as the eye could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully along; +but none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The Flaming +Cross. + +Michael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orville +looked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice the +change in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. His +garments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a light +played, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrous +than dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone like +his visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael, +but voices which spoke to Michael only. + +"Michael, my brother," he said, "what is this; tell me?" and Orville's +voice sounded soft, as if he were praying. "Michael, who are you?" + +But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. "I am none other than your +servant, sir," he answered. "He who serves, reigns; for his glory is +in the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In life +you were a good master. You will need me until you reach your own +Master there." Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over the +blistering Plain. + +Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrow +and he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept struggling +forward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguish +did not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him, +but his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body +it felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was more +grateful than ever for it. + +"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?" he asked. + +"Yes, from the Cross, master," said Michael, "for this is The Plain of +Sinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice." + +Then like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael had +understood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His face +became more radiant before he spoke. + +"Master," he said, "my service is almost over. It was my prayer +constantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but on +earth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of the +Dead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me make my pilgrimage with +you. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm +of Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You did +not even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm of +Forgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which +you builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day after you +did it, filled up the Chasm before you came to it. Here on The Plain +of Sinful Things we would naturally separate, for I had never wilfully +sinned against God. But you needed me, and He let me stay. Master, +your burden has fallen from you." + +It was true. Orville was standing erect, with his eyes looking +straight at The Flaming Cross, which did not blind him. His burden had +vanished, and his face had almost the radiance of Michael's. + +"The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It comes toward you. Your +pilgrimage is ending." + +Orville could see It coming, gently and slowly. The Plain was now all +behind him, and yet it seemed as if he had scarcely gone over more +than a few yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was not sweet +enough for the music that filled the air. Like the falling of many +waters in the distance came the promise of coolness to Orville's +parched throat and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt his +heart, full of Love, break in his bosom; but with it broke the bond of +Sin, and he knew that he was dead, indeed, to earth, as out from the +stainéd cover came his purified soul. + +The Cross was close to him now. With his new spiritual vision he saw +that in form it was One like himself, but One with eyes that were soft +and mild and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched and +nail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a wounded side and +out from it a flood pouring which cooled the parched sands, so that +from them the flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form and +beauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The Flaming Cross fluttered +countless wings, and childish voices made melody, soft and harmonious +beyond all compare. All else that Orville ever knew vanished before +the glance of the Beloved; faces and forms dearest and nearest, old +haunts and older affections, all were melted into this One Great Love +that is Eternal. The outstretched arms were wrapped around them. The +blood from the wounded side washed all their pains from them. On their +foreheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and Michael had come +home. + + + + +THE VICAR-GENERAL + + +The Vicar-General was dead. With his long, white hair smoothed back, +he lay upon a silk pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon his +breast. He was clad in priestly vestments; and he looked, as he lay in +his coffin before the great altar with the candles burning on it, as +if he were just ready to arise and begin a new _"Introibo"_ in Heaven. +The bells of the church wherein the Vicar-General lay asleep had +called his people all the morning in a sad and solemn tolling. The +people had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They were gathered +about the bier of their pastor. Priests from far and near had chanted +the Office of the Dead; the Requiem Mass was over, and the venerable +chief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, stood in cope and mitre, to +give the last Absolution. + +[Illustration: "The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the +last absolution."] + +The Bishop had loved the Vicar-General--had loved him as a brother. +For was it not the Vicar-General who had bidden His Lordship welcome, +when he came from his distant parish to take up the cares of a +diocese. With all the timidity of a stranger, the Bishop had feared; +but the Vicar-General guided his steps safely and well. Now the +Bishop, gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered--and wept. In +the midst of the Absolution, his voice broke. Priests bit their lips, +as their eyes filled with hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in the +parochial school and their little charges, did not attempt to keep +back their sobs. For others than the Bishop loved the Vicar-General. + +There was one standing by the coffin, whom neither the Bishop, priests +nor people saw. It was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore his +priestly vestments. Was he not a priest forever? His arms were folded +and his face was troubled. He knew every one present; but none of them +knew that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the Bishop's face +and seemed to wonder at his tears. He was quite unmoved by the sorrow +around him, did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar-General +had cared much about the feelings of others toward him. His eyes +wandered over the great congregation and rested on the children, but +without tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike the +Vicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested on the priestly form +in the coffin, and the trouble of them increased. + +The Absolution was over and the coffin was closed when the +Vicar-General looked up again, and knew that Another Unseen besides +himself was present. The Other was looking over the coffin at the +Vicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that searched down deep and +with lashes that were very, very still. He wore a long robe of some +texture the Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered like +silk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted with tiny diamonds. +The hair of the Other was long, and fell, bright and beautiful, over +his shoulders. His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in a +gold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly in spite of his +beardless face. The Vicar-General noticed what seemed like wings +behind him; but they were not wings, only something which gave the +impression of them. The Vicar-General could not remove his eyes from +the Other. Gradually he knew that he was gazing at an Angel, and an +Angel who had intimate relation to himself. + +The body was borne out of the church. The Angel moved to follow, and +the Vicar-General knew that he also had to go. The day was perfect, +for it was in the full glory of the summer; but the Vicar-General +noticed little of either the day or the gathering. The Angel did not +speak, but his eyes said "come": and so the Vicar-General +followed--whither, he did not know. + +The Vicar-General was not sure that it was even a place to which the +Angel led him; but he felt with increasing trouble that he was to be +the center of some momentous event. There were people arriving, most +of whom the Vicar-General knew--men and women of his flock, to whom he +had ministered and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled at +the Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged themselves on one side. +The Silent Angel stood very close to the Vicar-General. As the people +came near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon him, as if +they were lifting him in the air. They shone very brightly, too, and +took on a new beauty. The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearing +them. + +The Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a word; yet the +Vicar-General understood at once, knew that he was to answer at a +stern trial, and that these were his witnesses--the souls of the +people to whom he ministered, to whom he had broken the Bread of Life. +How many there were! They gladdened the Vicar-General's heart. There +were his converts, the children he had baptized, his penitents, the +pure virgins whose vows he had consecrated to God, the youths whom his +example had won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar-General +counted them, and he could not think of a single one missing. + +On the other side, witnesses began to arrive and the Vicar-General's +look of trouble returned. He felt his priestly vestments becoming +heavy. Especially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was like +a heavy iron helmet crushed down over his shoulders. The cincture was +binding him very tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it. +The maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. The stole was +pulling at him, and the weight of the chasuble made him very faint. + +He knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. He had seen these few +before. They were his neglected spiritual children. He remembered each +and every case. One was a missed sick-call: his had been the fault. +Another was a man driven from the church by a harsh word spoken in +anger. The Vicar-General remembered the day when he referred to this +man in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew and leave. He did not +return. Another was a priest--his own assistant. The Vicar-General had +no patience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them his feelings had +turned to rancor against the man--and the assistant was lost. The +Vicar-General trembled; for these things he had passed by as either +justified by reason of the severity necessary to his office, or as +wiped out by his virtues--and he had many virtues. + +The Vicar-General's eyes sought those of the Silent Angel, and he lost +some of his fear, while the weight of his vestments became a little +lighter. But the Silent Angel's gaze caused the Vicar-General again to +look at the witnesses. Those against him were increasing. The faces of +the new-comers he did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protesting +that there must be some mistake, for the new-comers were red men, +brown men, yellow men and black men, besides white men whose faces +were altogether strange. He was sure none of these had ever been in +his parish. The new-comers were dressed in the garbs of every nation +under the sun. They all alike looked very sternly at the +Vicar-General, so that he could not bear their glances. Still he could +not understand how he had ever offended against them, nor could he +surmise why they should be witnesses to his hurt. + +The Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar-General; but the +troubled soul of the priest could find no enlightenment in his eyes. +All the while witnesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filled +him with a great terror. + +At last he saw a face amongst the strangers which he thought familiar, +and he began to understand. It was the face of a priest he had known, +who had been in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-General's +authority. On earth this priest had been one of the quiet kind, +without ambition except to serve in a very humble way. He had always +been in a parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had in his +manner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected its humility and its +poverty. The Vicar-General remembered that the priest had once come to +him as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was not +complaining, nevertheless he really needed help and counsel. He said +that his scattered flock was being lost for the want of things which +could not be supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar-General +what was needed. The Vicar-General remembered that he had agreed with +him; but had informed him very gently that it was the policy of the +diocese to let each parish maintain and support itself. The +Vicar-General had felt justified in refusing his aid, especially +since, at that time, he was collecting for a new organ for his own +church, one with three banks of keys--the old one had but two. The +Vicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of worry at the time +was not groundless; but while then he had felt vaguely that he was +wrong in his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes sought +all through his own witnesses, but they found no likelihood of a +testimony in his favor based on the purchase of that grand organ. Then +it all came to the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel, +that he had received on earth all the reward that was due to him for +it. + +The presence of the men of all colors and of strange garbs was still a +mystery to the Vicar-General; but at last he saw among them a bent old +priest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. At once the +Vicar-General recognized him and his heart sank. Too well he +remembered the poor missionary who had begged for assistance: money, a +letter, a recommendation--anything; and had faced the inflexible +official for half an hour during his pleading. The Vicar-General had +felt at that time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had come +to him, that there was so much to be done at home, absolutely nothing +could be sent out. There was the Orphanage which the Bishop was +building and they were just beginning to gather funds for a new +Cathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the Vicar-General's ruling. +The diocese had flourished and had grown strong. The Vicar-General had +always been its pride. He was humbled now under the gaze of the Silent +Angel, whose eyes told him wherein he had been at fault. He knew that +the fault was not in the building of the great and beautiful things, +which of themselves were good because they were for God's glory; but +rather was it in this: that he had shut out of his heart, for their +sakes, the cry of affliction and the call of pleading voices from the +near and far begging but for the crumbs which meant to them Faith here +and Life hereafter. + +Now, O God! there were the red men, the brown men, the yellow men and +the black men; not to speak of these white men whose faces were so +strange; and they were going to say something--something against him. +He could guess--could well guess what it was they would say. The +Vicar-General knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had come +into Eternity. He doubted if it ever could be made right, for he knew +now the value of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was it +too late? His vestments were as heavy as lead. + +Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked for his Judge; but +he could not see Him. He only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had +a book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its title. There was +a chalice on the cover, as if it spoke of priests, and under it he +read: + +THE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED. + +The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General saw that it had +but one page. Shining out from the page he read: + +"THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER." + +And under it: + +"GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS." + +Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the hope in the eyes of +the Silent Angel gave him hope, as he bowed his head before the +judgment. + + + + +THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA + + +Father Broidy rushed down the stone steps and ran toward the Bishop's +carriage which had just stopped at the curb. He flung open the door +before the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand extended +him, helped its owner out and with a beaming face led the Bishop to +the pretty and comfortable rectory. + +"Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop," he said as they entered the house, +"and sure the whole Deanery is here to back it up." + +The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs echoing the +greeting. The Bishop knew them all, and he was happy, for well was he +aware that every man meant what he said. No one really ever admired +the Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private reason of his +own for it that he never confided to anyone save his nearest crony. +They were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta--the +poorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless three years ago, +but now--well, there it is across the lot, that symphony in stone, +every line of its chaste gothic a "Te Deum" that even an agnostic +could understand and appreciate; every bit of carving the paragraph of +a sermon that passers-by, perforce, must hear. To-day it is to be +consecrated, the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy's Arch of +Triumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin. + +"I thought you had but sixteen families here," said the Bishop as he +watched the crowd stream into the church. + +"There were but eighteen, Bishop," the young priest answered, with a +happy smile that had considerable self-satisfaction in it. "There are +seventy-five now." + +"And how did it come about, my lad?" questioned the Bishop. + +"Mostly through my mission bringing back some of the 'ought-to-be's,' +but I suppose principally because my friend McDermott opened his +factory to Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was born one of +us he had somehow acquired a bitter hatred of the Church, and he never +employed Catholics until I brought him around." + +There was a shadow of a smile that had meaning to it on the Bishop's +face, as he patted the ardent young pastor on the arm, and said: + +"Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I suppose we must begin to +vest now. Is it not near ten o'clock?" + +Father Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment on his +face to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession started +toward the church. + +Shall I describe the beauty of it all?--the lights and flowers, the +swinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mystic +symbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession into +the sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in the +heart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. He +had watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chips +that had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful a +day to him, and never such a ceremony but one--three years ago in the +Seminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dear +me, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy, +that young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of the +congratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. It +was small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way back +to the rectory: + +"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surely +won his spurs to-day." + +But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face, +and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he +slapped the young pastor on the back and said: + +"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you, +but wait and listen." Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I was +talking to the Bishop about you." + +The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say? +But perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely have +heard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone said +that Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's and +went to keep house for the priest at Alta. + +Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub up +the wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for months +never passed by unnoticed. + +The Dean was toastmaster. + +"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers," he began, when he had +enforced silence with the handle of his fork, "it is my pleasure and +pride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent to +one of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he found +you all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never a +secret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant. +Factories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for +a dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around you +to-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? That +is Father Broidy's work and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are glad +of it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What have +we others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are not +jealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our young +friend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, though +completely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me +now call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always a +joy." + +When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stood +again with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instant +he did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in his +voice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which had +preceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like a +forerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, this +kindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when he spoke it was always +with a gentle dignity, and a depth of sympathy and feeling that +compelled attention. + +"It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers," he began, "to find so +many of you here to rejoice with our young friend and his devoted +people, and to thus encourage the growth of a priestly life which he +has so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success more than I. +No one more warmly than I, his Bishop, tenders congratulations. This +is truly a day the Lord has made--this day in Alta. It is a day of +joy and gladness for priest and people. Will you pardon an old man if +he stems the tide of mirth for an instant? He could not hope to stem +it for long. On such an occasion as this it would burst the barriers, +leaving what he would show you once more submerged beneath rippling +waters and silver-tipped waves of laughter. It seems wrong even to +think of the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the hulks of +the wrecked. But the bottom always has its treasure as well as its +tragedy. There are both a tragedy and a treasure in the story I will +tell you to-day." + +"You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor of Alta? Yes! Then let +me tell you a story that your generous priestly souls will treasure as +it deserves." + +The table was strangely silent. Not one of the guests had ever before +known the depth of sympathy in the old Bishop till now. Every chord in +the nature of each man vibrated to the touch of his words. + +[Illustration: "I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had +received."] + +"It was ten years ago," went on the Bishop--"ah, how years fly fast to +the old!--a friend of college days, a bishop in an Eastern State, +wrote me a long letter concerning a young convert he had just +ordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant and handsome, the +son of wealthy parents, who, however, now cast him off, giving him to +understand that he would receive nothing from them. The young man was +filled with zeal, and he begged the bishop to give him to some +missionary diocese wherein he could work in obscurity for the greater +glory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a man that the bishop +desired to attach him to his own household and was loath to lose him, +but the priest begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop asked me +to take him for a few years and give him actual contact with the +hardships of life in a pioneer state. Soon, he thought, the young man +would be willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in other +words, wanted to test him. I sadly needed priests, so when he came +with the oil still wet on his hands, I gave him a place--the worst I +had--I gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what it was then. The +story of Alta is full of sorrow. I told it to him, but he thanked me +and went to his charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I did +not see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and with his annual +report in my hand I asked him how he lived on the pittance which he +had received. He said that it took very little when one was careful +and that he lived well enough--but his coat was threadbare and his +shoes were sadly patched. There was a brightness in his eyes too, and +a flush on his cheek that I did not quite like. I asked him of his +work and he told me that he was hopeful--told me of the little repairs +he had made, of a soul won back, but in the conversation I actually +stole the sad tale of his poverty from him. Yet he made no complaint +and went back cheerfully to Alta. + +"The next month he came again, but this time he told me of the dire +need of aid, not for himself, but for his church. The people, he said, +were poor pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church they +were losing their grip on religion. The young people were falling away +very fast. All around were well ordered and beautiful sectarian +churches. He could see the effect, not visible to less interested eyes +but very plain to his. He feared that another generation would be lost +and he asked me if there was any possibility of securing temporary aid +such as the sects had for their building work. I had to tell him that +nothing could be done. I told him of the poverty of my own Diocese, +and that, while his was a poor place, there were others approaching +it. In my heart I knew there was something sadly lacking in our +national work for the Church, but I could do nothing myself. He wrote +to his own State for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except for +the few stipends I could give him and which he devoted to his work, it +was impossible to do anything. He was brave and never faltered though +the eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat was worn +through. A few days later I received a letter from his bishop asking +how he did and saying that he would appoint him to an excellent parish +if he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to Alta with a +little note of my own, congratulating him on his changed condition. He +returned the letter to me with a few lines saying: 'I can not go. If I +desert my people here it would be a sin. There are plenty at home for +the rich places but you have no one to send here. Please ask the +bishop to let me stay. I think it is God's will.' The day I received +that letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral say: 'How seedy +that young Belmond looks! for an Eastern man he is positively sloppy +in his dress. He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of his +calling. Surely such a man is not calculated to impress himself upon +our separated brethren.' And another chimed in: 'I wonder why he left +his own diocese?'" + +"I heard no more for two years except for the annual report, and now +and then a request for a dispensation. I did hear that he was teaching +the few children of the parish himself, and every little while I saw +an article in some of the papers, unsigned but suspiciously like his +style, and I suspected that he was earning a little money with his +pen. + +"One winter night, returning alone from a visitation of Vinta, the +fast train was stalled by a blizzard at the Alta station. I went out +on the platform to secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcely +closed the door when a boy rushed up to me and asked if I were a +Catholic priest. When I nodded he said: 'We have been trying to get a +priest all day, but the wires are down in the storm. Father Belmond +is sick and the doctor says he will die. He told me to look through +every train that came in. He was sure I would find some one.' Reaching +at once for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the Pastor. The +home was the lean-to vestry of the old log church. In one corner +Father Belmond lived; another was given over to the vestments and +linens. Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the priest was +tossing, moaning and delirious. Only the boy had attended him in his +sickness until the noon of that day when two good old women heard of +his condition and came. One of them was at his bedside when I entered. +When she saw my collar she lifted her hands in that peculiarly +Hibernian gesture that means so much, and said: + +"'Sure, God sent you here this night. He has been waiting since noon +to die.' + +"The sick priest opened his eyes that now had the brightness of death +in them and appeared to look through me. He seemed to be very far +away. But slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back--back from +the shadows; then at last he spoke: + +"'You, Bishop? Thank God!'" + +"He made his simple confession. I anointed him and brought him +Viaticum from the tabernacle in the church. Then the eyes went wild +again, and I saw when they opened and looked at me that he had already +turned around, and was again walking through the shadows of the Great +Valley that ends the Long Road. + +[Illustration: "Then I learned--old priest and bishop as I was--I +learned my lesson."] + +"Through the night we three, the old woman, the boy and myself, +watched him and listened to his wanderings. Then I learned--old priest +and bishop as I was--I learned my lesson. The lips that never spoke a +complaint were moved, but not by his will, to go over the story of two +terrible years. It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. He +wanted to do so much, but the black discouragement of everything +slowly killed his hopes. He saw the Faith going from his people. He +saw that they were ceasing to care. The town was then, as it is +to-day, McDermott's town, but McDermott had fallen away when his +riches came, and some terrible event, a quarrel with a former priest +who had attended Alta from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter. +He practically drove the pastor from his door. He closed his factory +to the priest's people and one by one they left. Only eighteen +families stayed. The dying priest counted them over in his dreams, and +sobbed as he told of the others who had gone. Then the bigotry that +McDermott's faith had kept concealed broke out under the encouragement +of McDermott's infidelity. The boys of the town flung insults at the +priest as he passed. The people gave little, and that grudgingly. I +could almost feel his pain as he told in his delirium how, day after +day, he had dragged his frail body to church and on the round of +duty. But every now and then, as if the words came naturally to bear +him up, he would say: + +"'It's for God's sake. I am nothing. It will all come in His own good +time.' + +"Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his work. He went over his +visit to me. How he had hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed to +the ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all meant to that +sensitive, saintly nature, I would have sold my ring and cross to give +him what he needed. But my words seemed to have broken him and he came +home to die. The night of his return he spent before the altar in his +log church, and, Saints of Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard his +poor, dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed my head on +the coverlet and cried as only a child can cry--and I was only a child +at that minute in spite of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offered +a supreme sacrifice--his life. I gleaned from his prayers that his +parents had done him the one favor of keeping up his insurance and +that he had made it over to his church. So he wanted to die at his +post and piteously begged God to take him. For his death he knew would +give Alta a church. He seemed penetrated with the idea that alive he +was useless, but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. When I +heard that same expression used so often to-day I lived over again the +whole story of that night in the little vestry. All this time he had +been picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, during the pauses, +to be holding the paten as if he were gathering up the minute +particles from the corporal. At last his hand found mine. He clung to +it, and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason in them. He +smiled, and murmured, 'It is all right, now, Bishop.' I heard a sob +back of me where the boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He was +trying to speak again, and I caught the words, 'God's sake--I am +nothing--His good time.' Then he was still, just as the morning sun +broke through the windows. + +"That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the resurrection of Alta. The +old woman told me how it happened. He was twenty-five miles away +attending one of his missions when the blizzard was at its height. +McDermott fell sick and a telegram was sent for the priest--the last +message before the wires came down. Father Belmond started to drive +through the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in reaching McDermott's +bedside and gave him the last Sacraments. He did not break down +himself until he returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours he +tossed in fever before they found him. + +"McDermott grew better. He sent for me when he heard I was in town. +The first question he asked was: 'Is he dead?' I told McDermott the +story just as I am telling you. 'God forgive me,' said the sick man, +'that priest died for me. When he came here I ordered him out of my +office, yet when they told him I was sick he drove through the storm +for my sake. He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself was +the noblest soul that Alta ever had.' + +"I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere bishop was talking to +McDermott, and I, His minister, was silent in His presence. 'Bishop,' +said McDermott, after long thought, 'I never really believed until +now; I'm sorry that it took a man's life to bring back the Faith of my +fathers. Send us a priest to Alta--one who can do things: one after +the stamp of the saint in the vestry. I'll be his friend and together +we will carry on the work he began. I'll see him through if God spares +me.' + +"Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did. + +"Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not re-echoed the praises +that have been showered upon you as much as perhaps I might have done, +because I reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of them. I +believed when I sent you here that you were of his stamp. You have +done your duty and you have done it well. I am not ungrateful and I +shall not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I firmly +believe that you, under like circumstances, would also have willingly +given your life for the resurrection of Alta." + + + + +THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL + + +Years ago there lived a man whose soul had died; and died as only a +soul may die, by the man's own deed. His body lived still for +debauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, but his soul was +stifled in a flood of sin. So the man lived his life with a dead soul. + +When the soul died the man's dreams changed. The fairy children of his +youth came no more to play with him and his visions were of lands bare +and desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; and sandy, dry +and arid plains instead of bright grass and flowers. But out of the +rocks shone fiery veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that dried +the plain reflected countless smaller suns of untouched diamonds. +Hither in dreams came often the man with the dead soul. + +The years passed and the man realized with his mortal eyes the full of +his dreams and touched mortal foot to the desert that now was all his +own. Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body cried "enough." +Then only he left, when his strength could dig no more. So he began to +live more evilly because of his new power of wealth; and his soul was +farther than ever from resurrection. + +Now it happened that the man with the dead soul soon found that he had +become a leper because of his sins, and so with all his gains was +driven from among men. He went back to the desert and watched the gold +veins in the rocks and the shining of the diamonds, all the time +hoping for more strength to dig. But while waiting, his musings turned +to hateful thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all good. So +he said: "I have been driven from among men because they love virtue, +henceforth I will hate it; because they loved God, henceforth I will +love only evil; because they use their belongings to work mercy, +henceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. I may not go to men, so +I will go to those who do men harm." + +So the man with the dead soul went to live among the beasts. He dwelt +for a long time in the forests and the most savage of the brutes were +his friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his cave. "How +livest thou here?" he asked. + +"From the offerings of the raven who brings me bread and the wild bees +who give it sweetness and the great beasts who clothe me," answered +the hermit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts because +they did good and were merciful. + +Out of the forest the North Wind met the man and tossed him upon its +wings and buffeted him and chilled him to the marrow. In vain he +asked for mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half frozen and sore +with blows the man gasped-- + +"'Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou givest nothing but evil." +So he went to dwell in the cave of the North Wind and the chill of the +pitiless cold was good to him on account of his dead soul. + +One day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his own desert, and the +North Wind went to meet them and a mighty battle took place in the +air; but the North Wind was the victor. White on the ground where the +chill had flung them lay the clouds in snow crystals; and the man +laughed his joy at the sight of the ruin--for he knew that the +rain-clouds would have greened his desert and made it beautiful. But +he heard the men who cultivated the land on which the snow had fallen +bless the North Wind that it had given their crops protection and +promised plenty to the fields of wheat. Then the man with the dead +soul cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the ocean. + +The waters bade him stay and daily he saw their work of evil. Down in +the depths dead men's bones whitened beside the wealth of treasure the +ocean had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years exulting in +destruction before he came to the surface to watch the storms and +laugh at the big waves eating the great ships. But there was only a +gentle breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels laden with +treasure and wealth passing from nation to nation. He saw the dolphins +play over the bosom of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride the +waves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns where all day long the +sun kept working, drawing moisture to the sky from the waters to +spread it, even over the man's barren desert, to make it bloom. + +Cursing again, the man with the dead soul left the waters and buried +himself beneath the earth, to hide in dark caves where neither light +nor sound could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave made it all +too bright. By its lantern he saw the hidden mysterious forces +working. Through tiny paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near the +surface that baby seeds might germinate, live and flourish for man's +benefit. He saw great forests draw their strength from the very Earth +into which he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its kindly +arms and so to change into carbon and remain stored away for man's +future comfort. Then the man with the dead soul could live in earth no +longer, and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to the +waters. + +"I will return to my desert," he said, "for there is more of evil in +the gold and diamonds than anywhere else." + +So he went back where the gold still shone from the veins in the +cliffs and the diamonds twinkled in the pitiless sun rays. But a +throne had been raised on a hillock and a king sat thereon with a +crown on his head and a trident in his hand. + +"Who art thou who invadest my desert?" asked the man. + +"Thy master," answered the king. + +"And who is my master?" asked the man. + +"The spirit of evil." + +"Then would I dwell with thee," said the man. + +"Thou hast served me well and thou art welcome," said the king. +"Behold!" + +He stretched forth the trident and demons peopled the desert. + +"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell with them, and without +torture, unless thy evil deeds be turned to good to torture me. Know +that thou hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil have +brought thee my favor. If thou hast been successful in reaping the +evil thou has sown, thou shalt be my friend. But know that for every +good thing that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips of +scorpions." + +So the man with the dead soul walked through rows of demons with whips +in their hands; but no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown his +evil well and the king did not frown on him. + +Then one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon his shoulders. +Pain-racked he looked at the king and saw that his face was twisted +with agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had +been turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fall +mercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, cried +out: + +"Tear aside the veil. Let him see." + +In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soul +saw all the Earth before him--and understood. A generation had passed +since he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. The +finger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from it +everywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poor +could worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked, +dazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever the +Finger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished, +the naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Before +him was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment and +multiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the +tortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungered +for his back. + +Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made him +open them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purified +and sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the "Miserere," +and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose. + +He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit +of penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes looked +once into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes +of the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and +evil--his own and his only son. + +Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and +behold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out +of the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked +at them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the +"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to +pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection. + + + + +THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR + + +I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the +capital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood, +though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists +whose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized +the glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of +paper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and I +really began to live only when some one representing the Great Nation +stamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throb +of being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me. + +I remember that at first I was confined in a prison, bound with others +by an elastic band which I longed to break that I might escape to the +welcoming hands of men who looked longingly at me through the bars. +But soon one secured me and I went out into a great, wide and very +beautiful world. + +Of the first months of my life I can remember but very little, only +that I was feverishly happy in seeing, and particularly in doing. I +was petted and admired and sought after. I went everywhere and did +everything. So great was my popularity that some even bartered their +peace of mind to obtain me, and others, forced to see me go, shed +tears at the parting. Some, unable to have me go to them otherwise, +actually stole me. But all the time I cared nothing, for I was living +and doing--making men smile and laugh when I was with them and weep +when I went away. It was all the same to me whether they laughed or +cried. I only loved the power that was in me to make them do it and I +believed that the power was without limit. + +I was not yet a year old when I began to lose my beauty. I noticed it +first when I fell into the hands of a man with long hair and pointed +beard, who frowned at me and said: "You poor, faded, dirty thing, to +think that I made you!" But I did not care. He had not made me. It was +the Great Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make even him +long for me. So I was happy. + +I was one year and a half old when I formed my first great partnership +with others of my kind, and it came about like this: I had been in the +possession of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in a most +unpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard a sharp voice ask for +me--nay, demand me, and couple the demand with a threat that my +guardian should lose her home were the demand refused. I was given +over, I hoped, to better quarters, but in this I was sadly +disappointed, for my new owner confined me in a strong but +ill-favored box where thousands like myself were growing mouldy and +wrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes we were released at +night to be carefully counted by candle-light, but that was all. Thus +we who were imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even then we +were not strong enough to free ourselves. One night the box was opened +with a snap and I saw the thin, pale face of my master looking down at +us. He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions and placed us +outside the box. + +"There's the money," he said, "as I told you. It's all yours. Are you +satisfied now?" I looked across the table at a young girl with a +white, set face that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer. + +"If you want it why don't you take it?" he snarled at her. "I can tell +you again that there is nothing else for you." + +The girl had something in her hand that I saw. I see more than most +men. The thing she had made a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. He +fell across the table and something red and warm went all over me. I +began to be unhappy, for I thought I saw that there was something in +the world that could not be bought. For him I cared nothing. + +It was strange that after my transfers I was at last used to pay the +judge who tried the girl. I was in the judge's pocket when he +sentenced her to death. He said: "May the Lord have mercy on your +soul." But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most men, +that he didn't believe in the Lord or in souls. He left the court to +spend me at a ----, but I think that I will not mention that shameful +change. There was nothing strange about my falling into the hangman as +part of his pay. I had been in worse hands in the interim. + +I saw her die. Not a word did she say about the man she killed, though +it might have saved her to tell of the mock marriage and the other +things I knew she could reveal. She thought it better to die, I +suppose, than be shamed. So she died--unbought. It made me still more +unhappy to think of it at all. The dark stain never left me, but I +cared nothing for that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted me, +was starving for what I could buy, but spurned me and died rather than +take me. There was something that had more power than I possessed. + +I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I had +yet made--my partnership with millions of others. I traveled long +distances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and so +produced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers, +steamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order to +enhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, +checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when I +returned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners were +nearly all with us one day when the master came in with a man and +pointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massive +head, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but he +never changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threw +us down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was more +unhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look that +he wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There was +another thing I could not buy. + +But a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of that +has never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honor +or his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom he +had stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. He +refused and the priest turned from him without saying the words of +absolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, and +croaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back into +him, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again till +he died. The priest came back and looked at him. + +"Poor fool!" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: "YOU +sent him to Hell." + +Ah! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not glad +enough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he was +my master long before I mastered him. + +His dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed. +I was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirty +floor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I was +torn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent me +back to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists work +again on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist +could give me new life. + +Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew he +was good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me. +"God has blessed me," he said, "with riches and knowledge and +strength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the rest +shall be spent in His service." Then we were sent out, thousands of +us, returning again and again, splitting into great and small parties, +but all coming and going hither and thither on errands of mercy. + +Now I felt my love of doing return. Never did I now see a tear that I +did not dry. Never did I hear a sigh that I did not change to a laugh; +never a wound that I did not heal; never a pain that I did not soothe; +nor a care I did not lighten. Where the sick were found, I visited +them; where the poor were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains and +in the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the Chalice of Salvation. +To the dying I sped the Minister of Pardon. Into the darkness and the +shadow of death I sent the Light of love and hope and truth, till, +rich in the deeds of mercy I did in my master's name, I felt the call +to another deathbed--his own. I saw my companions flying from the +bounds of the great earth to answer the call. They knew he needed them +now with the rich interest of good deeds they had won for him. Fast +they came and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. The enemy +who hated him pointed to them in derision. "Gold buys hell, not +heaven," he laughed, but we stood around the bed and the enemy could +not pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his command, began +to pray and the prayer was like sweetest music echoing against the +very vault of heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones of +harps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and louder till all seemed +changed to a thousand organs, with every stop attuned to the praying. +They were the voices of the children from parts and regions where we +had lifted the Cross. One by one they joined the mighty music till on +the wings of the melody the master was borne aloft, higher and higher +as new voices coming added of their strength. I watched till he was +far above and still rising to heights beyond the ken of dreams. + +An Angel touched me. + +"Be thou clean," he said, "and go, I charge thee, to thy work. Thy +master is not dead, but only begins his joy. While time is, thou shalt +work for him and thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thou +shalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, the children may +gather and the song find new strength and new volume to lift him +nearer and nearer the Throne." + +So I am happy that I have learned my real power; that I can do what +alone is worth doing--for His sake. + + + + +LE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE[1] + + +This is the story that the old sailor from Tadousac told me when the +waves were leaping, snapping, and frothing at us from the St. +Lawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the anger of the waters +rose the wail of the Braillard de la Magdeleine. + +"You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. I think of my own baby +when I hear him, always the same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby! + +"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkens +everything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little mother +lived--_pauvre mêre_. She was only a child, innocent and good and +happy, when he came--the great lord, the _Grand Seigneur_, from +France--came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac. + +"She loved him, loved him and forgot--forgot her father and +mother--forgot the good name they gave her--forgot the innocence that +made her beautiful--forgot the pure Mother and the good God, for him +and his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Curé had not +blessed them in the church. + +"Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries out there in the +storm. The _Grand Seigneur_ killed the little baby, killed it to save +her from disgrace, killed it without baptism, and it cries and wails +out there, _pauvre enfant_. + +"The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. She has been here for +more than two hundred years listening to her baby cry. Poor mother. +The baby calls her and she wanders through the storm to find him. But +she never sees, only hears him cry for her--and God. Till the great +Day of Judgment will the baby cry, and she--_pauvre mêre_--will pay +the price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart and hungry +mother arms, that will not be filled. You hear the soft wind from the +shore battle with the great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she, +_pauvre mêre_--perhaps. + +"The _Grand Seigneur_? He never comes, for he died unrepentant and +unpardoned. The lost do not return to Earth and Hope. He never comes. +Only the mother comes--the mother who weeps and seeks, and hears the +baby cry." + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a sound +like wailing whenever there is a great storm. The people call it Le +Braillard de la Magdeleine and countless tales are told concerning +it. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS + + +From Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint John the rock-bound +Saguenay rolls through a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty, +and alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore tales. Ghosts of the +past people its shores, phantom canoes float down the river of +mystery; and disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the dreamer's +call; traders, trappers, soldiers, women strong in love and valor, +heroes in the long ago, and saintly missionaries offering up mortal +life that savages may know the Christian's God. + +Beauty, mysticism and music--music in all things, from the silver flow +of the river to the soft notes of the native's tongue, and dominating +all, simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted patriotism. + +Such was French Canada, the adopted country of Deschamps the trapper, +a native of old France, who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec was +yet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or hardship, +gradually grew to be a _grand monsieur_ in the estimation of the +people about him. He loved his country well and, when war came, sent +forth three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. Many were the +tears the patriot shed, because age forbade the privilege of +shouldering musket and marching himself. + +Weary months dragged by before tidings came. Quebec had fallen. The +gallant Montcalm had passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero's +rest, and two of the trapper's sons lay dead on the Plains of Abraham. +They had died bravely, as Deschamps hoped they would, with their faces +to the foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old father at +Tadousac. + +And Pascal, the best beloved? + +Pascal was--a traitor! + +The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter and +gallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hope +lightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth nor +heaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on +his woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despair +in the words: "France! Pascal! Traitor!" + +Years passed and the trapper lived on, a senile wreck, ever brooding +on defeat, then breaking into fierce invective. Misery had isolated +him from his kind; the _grand monsieur_ was the recluse of Tadousac. +One day he disappeared from his lonely cabin and no one knew whither +he had gone. + +Treason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son. Wealth and +honors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noble +family, who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous deed, +kindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang for +the birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion of +Pascal Deschamps. + +"Summon our friends," said the happy father. "A son to the house of +Deschamps! Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir of +wealth, power and position." + +So heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, but +bore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac. + +"The curse is lifted!" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal's +treason. "A child at last! The good God has forgiven him." + +From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised +his treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with +them came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly +clad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever: +"France! Pascal! Traitor!" + +Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician +beauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper's +descendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his +nurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor. + +"A sturdy fellow, my friends," said his laughing sponsor. "An English +Deschamps." + +"An English Deschamps!" cried the English guests, pleased with the +conceit. "Long may his line endure." + +"A traitor Deschamps!" said a voice instinct with wrath. "Unhappy man, +your taint is in him!" + +The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the +unbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the +dignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen +lips to speak the word: "Father." + +"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the +burden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I have +guarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would +have transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of +Deschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery has +destroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose +names are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country. +Ah, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps you +say! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, I +shall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity. +You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone." + +And snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passed +from the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers +were roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper had +driven holes through the sides of every one but his own. + +With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, through +the rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a +harbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed, +climbed to the summit of the rock, and laying down the boy, kindled a +fire of driftwood. "I may see his face," he muttered. "The last of my +line! The English cross shows! The strain shows! I must wash it out! +Hush, my little one, thy grandfather guards thee; soon shalt thou +sleep in my arms--arms that cradled thy father, and shall hold thee +forever. I, who was ever gentle, who spared the birds and beasts, and +sorrowed with the trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby--will +save thee from thy father. Here where the wind speaks of freedom; here +where the river even in its anger, as to-night, whispers peace; here +where Deschamps worked and hoped; here where Deschamps sorrowed and +mourned; here, little one, shall we rest together. Child, for you and +me life means disgrace; the better part is death and freedom." + +A leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, fluttering white like +angels' wings, dipped to the surface and disappeared. The race of +Deschamps was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its pall, the +storm its requiem. + + + + +THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE + + +The three men who sat together around the little library table of the +Rectory felt the unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead silence. +The big burly one, with his feet planted straight on the carpet, +passed his tongue over his lips and nervously folded and opened the +paper in his hands. The tall young chap with creased trousers kept +crossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither of them looked at the young +priest, who ten minutes before had welcomed them with a merry laugh +and had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of his little +bookish den, as cordially as if they were the best friends he had in +the world. Now the young priest looked old and the half-minute had +done it. He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor and +architect arrived; but he was a care-filled man now, as he sat and +nervously passed a handkerchief over his forehead, to find it wet, +though the room was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting an +actual physical barrier when he spoke to the big man. + +"I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray" (it had been "John" ten minutes +before), "I do not quite see," he repeated anxiously, "how I can owe +you so much. You know our contract was plain, and the bid that I +accepted from you was six thousand eight hundred dollars." + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur," answered McMurray with shifting +embarrassment, "but you know these other things were extras, sur." + +"But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMurray," urged the priest. + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations was +sandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specifications +called fur. It cost in labor, sur,"--McMurray did not seem to be +enjoying his explanation--"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then you +know, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes--to go +ahead, sur." + +"But you did not tell me it would cost more," urged the priest. + +"No, sur; no, sur; I didn't, sur; but a child would know that. Now +look here at the plans." + +"Just a minute, Mr. McMurray," broke in the architect, suavely. "Let +me explain. You see, Father, I was your representative both as +architect and superintendent of the building. I know that McMurray's +bill of extras is right. I passed on them and everything he did was +necessary. There are extras, you know, on every building." + +"But," said the priest, "I told you I had only eight thousand dollars, +and that the furnishings would take all over the amount called for by +the contract. You can not expect to get blood out of a stone. Here now +you say I must pay a thousand dollars more; but where can I get the +money?" + +"Well, Father," said the architect, "I don't think you will have to +worry much about that. You priests always manage somehow, and you got +off cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand dollars, if it's +worth a cent; and McMurray did you a clean, nice job. Now one thousand +dollars won't hurt you; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will get +the money in a year or so." + +"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can do +anything else," answered the priest. "This thing has sort of stunned +me. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had never +started that building at all." + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur," said McMurray quickly. "You can have a month, +sur. I am not a hard man, sur; but I've got to pay off me workers, you +know. But take the month, sur, take it--take it." + +McMurray looked longingly at the door. + +All three had arisen; but the priest's step had lost its spring as he +escorted his visitors out. + +Both of them were silent for the distance of a block away from the +Rectory, and then McMurray said: + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like ----." + +"I do too," broke in the architect. "I know what you were going to +say. He took it pretty hard." + +Not another word was spoken by either of them until the hotel was +reached, and they had drowned the recollection of the young face, with +the look of age upon it, in four drinks at the bar. + +When the priest, with a slight look of relief, closed the door upon +his visitors and bolted it after them, he had perhaps seen a little +humor in the situation; but the bolting of the door was the only sign +of it. His face was still grave when he stood, silent and stunned, +staring at the bill on the table. + +"The good Lord help me," he prayed. "One thousand dollars and the +Bishop coming in two weeks! What can I say to him? What can I do?" + +He pulled out a well thumbed letter from his pocket and read it to +himself, though he knew every word by heart. + + "DEAR FATHER RYAN,--I am pleased at your success, especially + that you built the church, as I told you to, without debt. + The congregation is too poor for any such burden. I will be + there for the dedication on the 26th. + + "And by the way. You may get ready for that change I spoke + of. I am as good as my word, and will not delay about + promoting you. The parish of Lansville is vacant. In a month + you may consider yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I + will look around to select one of the young men to take + your place and begin the work of building a house. God bless + you. + + "Sincerely yours in Christ, + + THOMAS, _Bishop of Tolma_. + +"All these years," whispered the young priest, "all these years, I +have waited for that place. I meant to have a home and mother with me, +and at least enough to live on after my ten years of sacrifice; but +one thousand dollars spoils it all. How can I raise it? I can not do +it before the 26th and the Bishop will ask for my report. How can I +tell him after that letter?" + +He dropped the letter over the contractor's bill and sat down, with +discouragement written on every line of his face. He was trying to +think out the hardest problem of his life. + +The town wherein Father Ryan had built his church had been for years +on the down-grade, so far as religion was concerned. There were in it +forty indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. They had just +enough religion left in them to desire a little more, and they had a +certain pride left, too, in their Faith. + +Father Ryan builded on that pride. It was a long and arduous work he +had faced. But after ten years he succeeded in erecting the little +church. His warnings to the architect had gone without heed; and he +found himself plunged into what was for him an enormous debt, just at +the time when promotion was assured. + +All night long his problem was before him, and in the morning it was +prompt to rise up and confront him. + +After breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered it himself, to find +two visitors on the steps. One was a very venerable looking old +priest, who had a kindly way about him and who laid his grip very +tenderly on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. His +companion looked vastly different as he flung a little satchel into +the corner, and with a voice as big and hearty as his body informed +his host that both had come to stay over Sunday. + +"Barry and I have been off for two weeks and we got tired of it," said +Father Fanning, the big man. "First vacation in ten years for both of +us, but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over his school, +and I got worrying over Barry, so there you are." + +"But why didn't both of you go home?" asked Father Ryan. + +"Home! confound it, that's the trouble. I would give anything to go on +the other ten miles and get off the train at my little burg, and so +would Barry, for that matter; but we were both warned to stay away +until Wednesday--reception and all that sort of thing. So now we are +going to stay here." + +"That's all right," said Father Ryan. "I am glad to have you, but this +is Saturday and to-morrow is Sunday, and--" + +"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It is +no use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He +won't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to work +on his vacation, would you?" + +"Well, if you won't, you won't," replied Father Ryan, "but you will +say the late Mass, anyhow? You'll have to do something for your +board." + +"All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass in private, and you +say the first, yourself. Then you can preach as short and as well as +you can, which is not saying much for you." + +"Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sunday," interrupted +Father Ryan, "I won't lack for a subject." + +Father Ryan had a great weakness for the Seminary, which was entitled +to an annual collection in the entire Diocese. He had studied there +for six years and, since his ordination, not one of his old professors +had been changed. Then he knew his obligations to the Seminary; he was +one of those who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning was +obliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to change his mind +regarding his friend's ability to preach well. Father Ryan's discourse +was an appeal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater. + +He closed it very effectively: "I owe the Seminary, my dear friends," +he said, "about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I +may ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that is +upon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owe +the Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfully +carrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is for +that Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping to +train priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On the +Seminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, the +future of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in a +selfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving +your little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking of +your children and your children's children, and the future of +religion, not only in this community but all over our State, and even +in the Nation, you will be generous--even lavish, in your gifts. This +is a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to build +our church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but I +would rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitled +by the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the average +amount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took a +cent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you put +into this collection shall be sent to the Bishop for the Seminary; to +help him educate worthy priests for our Diocese." + +After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher. + +"I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan," he said, "that I never looked at +things in such a light before. That was a great appeal you made. My +collection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home to +take it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermon +that I can remember." + +Father Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since his +two friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now that +the sermon was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was weighing +upon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some of +the people. + +A stranger brushed past him--a big, bluff, hearty looking man, all +bone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud. There was a +two-horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger started for +it; but turned back on seeing the priest. + +"I am a stranger here, Father," he said. "I have just come down from +the mountains, where I have been prospecting. I have to drive over to +Caanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no trains here on +Sunday. I hadn't been to Mass for three months, for we have no place +to go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me to +drop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it _was_ a good +sermon. That was a great appeal you made." + +Father Ryan could only murmur, "Thank you. You are not staying very +long with us?" + +"No, I can't stay, Father. I have to get to New York and report on +what I found. I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, and +have driven twenty miles this morning. I don't belong around here at +all. I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and you +are the nearest priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection." + +The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan's hand. By this time they +both had reached the livery rig. A quick "Good-bye" from the visitor, +and a "God bless you" from Father Ryan, ended the conversation. + +The priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house. +When he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast +at the table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which he +found difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic comments +of his friend on Father Ryan's sermon. + +"We were talking about you, Ryan," he said. "And there is no need of +telling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing I +would like to ask. What's wrong with you since we came?" + +"Why, nothing," said Father Ryan. "Haven't I treated you better than +you deserve?" + +"That is all right, that is all right," interrupted his big neighbor, +"but there _is_ something wrong. You were worried at first. Then you +dropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you came +out of the sanctuary. You were at it when we came in and you are at it +now. Come, Ryan, let us know what it is. If it is money, well--" + +Father Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: "Surely, it is +not the new church, is it?" + +The young pastor sat down in a chair at the table and looked at his +friends, before he spoke. "Well, I never could keep a secret," he +said. "Therefore, I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor of +anybody, and must always be seeking a counselor for myself." + +"I always hate a man who can keep a secret," said Father Fanning. "I +always believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you +have to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobody +ever is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep a +secret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it." + +"Well, it is about the church," said Father Ryan. + +And he told his story. + +"Well, of all the strange characters I ever met," said Father Fanning, +"you certainly are the worst, Ryan. Here you are in a box about that +thousand dollars and yet this morning you gave away your own share of +the collection, besides booming the Seminary. Why man, the Seminary +ought not ask anything from you, in your present condition. But there +is no use trying to pound sense into you. What are you going to do +about this? It is too much money for Barry and myself to take care of. +Bless your heart, I don't think he has fifty dollars to his name and I +wouldn't like to tell you the state of my finances. We have to think +out some way. Maybe Barry can see the Bishop." + +"Well, we'll have to stop thinking about it," said Father Ryan. "I +might just as well settle down where I am. I certainly will not get +very much of a promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big man, +covered with mud, in the church?" + +"No," said Father Fanning, "I did not notice him. Who was he? What +about him?" + +"He was a stranger," said Father Ryan, "and was very pleasant. He is a +prospector from New York. He has been up in the mountains and away +from church for the last three months. He must have found something up +there, because he is going on to New York to meet his backers; at +least, that is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over to +Caanan to-day to catch the fast train." + +"I wonder if he put anything in the collection?" said Father Fanning. + +"No, he did not," answered the pastor, "but he gave it to me afterward +and told me to put it in. By the way, here it is." + +He pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it flat on the table. +The three men gasped for breath. It was a thousand dollars. + +Father Fanning was the first to find words. "Great Scott, Ryan," he +said, "you ought to go out and thank God on your knees before the +altar. Here is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be a +millionaire." + +Father Ryan's face was all smiles. "Yes," he said, "it is the end of +my trouble. I never dreamed it would come to an end so easily. Thanks +be to God for it." + +The little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have no +comment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed at +the good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. But +he was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke. + +"What did you say you preached on to-day, Father Ryan?" + +"Why," broke in Fanning, "he preached on the Seminary. Didn't I tell +you! And a good sermon--" + +"Yes, I preached on the Seminary," said Father Ryan. + +"But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you pledged every dollar +that came into the collection to the Seminary." + +"Why, surely," said Father Ryan, "but this did not come in through the +collection." + +"Yes," persisted Father Barry, "but did you not say that the strange +man told you to put it into the collection?" + +"Why--yes--yes, he did say something like that." + +"Well, then," urged Father Barry, "is it not a question to be debated +as to whether or not you can do anything else with the money?" + +"Oh, confound it all, Barry," cried Father Fanning. "You are a +rigorist. You don't understand this case. Now there's no use bringing +your old syllogisms into this business. This man is in a hole. He has +got to get out of it. What difference is it if I put my money in one +pocket or in the other pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. The +thousand dollar note was given to the Church, and the most necessary +thing now is to pay the debt on that part of it that's here. Why the +Seminary doesn't need it. The old Procurator would drop dead if he got +a thousand dollars from this parish." + +"Well, so far as I can see," said Father Barry, "what you say does not +change matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar--and every cent +for that matter--in that collection to the Seminary. This money forms +part of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men would +argue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was given +for a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it for +any other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply will +have to make restitution later on to the Seminary. + +"That's an awful way of looking at things," said Father Fanning. +"Confound it, I am glad I don't have to go to you for direction. Why, +its getting worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this money +would be only too glad to have it go to pay off the debt. What does he +know about the Seminary? He was attending the little church out here, +and whatever good he got from his visit came through Father Ryan and +his people. He is under obligation to them first. Can't you see that +it does not make any difference, after all. It is the same thing." + +"No, it is not the same thing," said Father Barry. "Perhaps we are too +much tempted to believe that gifts of this kind might be +interchangeable. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at home, and +that means that sometimes we unconsciously are full of zeal for our +own glory. Look it up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a +killjoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do a +lot of sorrowful thinking afterward." + +It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the +discussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was not +a theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted. + +When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: "Well, I +guess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, +yourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I can +testify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, and +that is that I have learned more theology out of this three-day +discussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothing +like a fight to keep a fellow in training." + +His friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to his desk and wrote this +letter to his Bishop: + + YOUR LORDSHIP--I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary + collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. You may be surprised at + the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note + handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate + the Seminary on getting it. + + "The church is ready for dedication as your Lordship + arranged. + + "Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the train." + +Then Father Ryan went to bed. He did not expect to sleep very much +that night; but in spite of his worry, and to his own great surprise, +he had the most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priesthood. + +The church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe of face, abrupt in +manner, but if the truth were known, kindly at heart, finished his +work before he asked to see the books of the parish. + +Father Ryan was alone with his Lordship when the time for that ordeal +came. He handed the books to the Bishop and laid a financial statement +before him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then read it +through. The frown was still on his face as he looked up at the young +priest before him. + +"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me, +Father Ryan," he said. "You wrote me that the church was finished +without debt." + +"I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the letter. I had the money +on hand to pay the exact amount of the contract. The architect and the +builder came to me later and informed me that there had been extras, +of which I knew nothing, amounting to one thousand dollars. I am one +thousand dollars behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not my +fault, except that perhaps I should have known more about the tactics +of the men I was dealing with. I will have to raise the money some +way; and, of course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me to +Lansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I could. I will know +more about building next time." + +The Bishop had no word to say. Though the frown appeared pretty well +fixed upon his face, it did not seem quite natural. There was a +twinkle in his eye that only an expert on bishops could perceive. + +"But you sent me one thousand dollars more than I could have expected +only this week, for the Seminary," he said. That surely indicates that +you have some people here who might help you out of your dilemma." + +"I am sorry, your Lordship," said Father Ryan, "but it does not +indicate that at all. I have no rich people. All of my people have +done the best they could for the new church. I will have to give them +a rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The man who gave +the thousand dollar bill was a stranger--a miner. I do not know him at +all. He did not even give his name, but said the money was for the +collection. I could not find any authority for keeping it for the +church here, though, to be candid, I wanted to do it. That is all." + +The Bishop still kept his eye on him. "Of course you know that your +appointment to Lansville was conditional." + +"I understand that, your Lordship," said Father Etan. "You have no +obligation to me at all in that regard." + +"Will you kindly step to the door and ask my Chancellor to come in?" + +When the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to him: "Have you the +letter I received from Mr. Wilcox?" + +The Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, who unfolded it and, +taking another glance at the dejected young pastor, read it to him. It +was very much to the point. + + "DEAR BISHOP,--You may or may not know me, but I knew you + when you were pastor of St. Alexis in my native town. The + fact is, you baptized me. I would not even have known where + you were, had it not been for a mistake I made this morning. + I came down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ashford. + When I was going away I gave the young priest a thousand + dollar note. If you recognize my name, you will understand + that it was not too much for me to give, for though I am a + stingy sort of fellow, the Lord has blessed me with + considerable wealth. I remember saying to the young priest + that I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I + remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it out that he + would be sending the collection to you. + + "Now, I don't like to disappoint you, dear Bishop, but I did + not intend that money to go to the Seminary, but to the + pastor for the little parish. Later on, when developments + start in the mountains, and they will start when I get back + to New York, I may need that young priest to come up and + take care of my men; so I want the money to go to his + church, which, from what my driver told me coming over, + needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, for I + expect to be around your section of the country a great deal + in the future. + + + "Respectfully yours, + + "PAUL WILCOX." + +Through tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all the sternness go out of +the Bishop's face. + +"Mr. Wilcox," said his Lordship, "is a millionaire many times over. He +is one of the largest mine operators in the world. He likes to do +things of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father Ryan; but I +think, if I were you, I would stay here. When Wilcox says things are +going to move, they usually do. Think it over and take your choice. +Here is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a good thing, Father, +to praise people; especially those I have to govern, so I am not going +to praise you for what you have done. It was right, and it was your +duty. I appreciate it." + + + + +THE OCCASION + + +Mr. O'Brien of No. 32 Chestnut street had his entire family with him, +as he hurried to the eight o'clock Mass. Mrs. O'Brien was already +tired, though she had gone only a block from the house; for Elenora, +who always was tardy, had to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had come +down stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his hair which was +right above his forehead, but the back section, which the mirror did +not show, was tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. O'Brien's +part to make the children presentable; and hurry plus effort was not +good for--well, for folks who do not weigh as little as they did when +they were younger. + +Dr. Reilly met the O'Briens at the corner. + +"Hello," he called, "it's the whole family, bedad. What brings ye all +to the 'eight o'clock'?" + +Mr. O'Brien answered his family doctor only when the children were +left behind where they could not hear: "It's Father Collins' turn to +preach at the High Mass, Doc," he explained. + +"Sure, it is," said the Doctor. "Faith, I forgot that. I was going to +High Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure, +the poor man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God is +neither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?" + +"He is the finest priest in the city," said Mr. O'Brien, looking back +to see if his regiment was following, "and the worst preacher. I can't +sit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he gets +before the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down, +trying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up +and say it for him." + +"Well, O 'Brien, I believe you could say it, judging from the way you +lecture us at the council meetings. And that brings me to the business +I had when I ran off to see you. Couldn't you let the Missis take care +of the children at this Mass? McGarvey wants to talk over something +with us. He's sick and can't get out. We'd both go to the 'nine +o'clock' and that will miss the sermon, too." + +Mr. O'Brien nodded his head complacently. They had reached the front +of the church, and whom should they meet but Father Collins hurrying +out from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the street. + +"Good morning, Father," cried the children in chorus, just as they did +when one of the priests visited their room in the parochial school. +The two men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins returned +the salute. He crossed the street quickly and ran up stairs to his +own room in the rectory, but did not notice that O'Brien and the +doctor went past the church. + +Be it known that Father Collins was the third assistant. He had been +ordained one year. The first assistant, who was still fasting, with +the obligation of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in Father +Collins' favorite chair, when the owner of it entered. + +"Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house," the first +assistant called. "Come in, man, and be at home. I couldn't sleep, so +I had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but," he had caught +the expression on his friend's face, "what is the matter?" + +"Oh, nothing much, nothing much," replied Father Collins, "only I see +the whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o'clock Mass. The +O'Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You know, they always go +to High Mass." + +"Which," remarked Father Grady, "is no compliment either to my +singing, or your Eminence's preaching, or to both." + +"Oh, your singing is all right," assured Father Collins. + +"Well," said Father Grady, "I accept the correction. I am a modest +man, but I must acknowledge that I can sing--at least, relatively +speaking, for I haven't very much to compete against. However, if it +is not my singing, then it must be your preaching." + +"It is, it is," answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness in +his voice. "Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in the +Seminary. You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I work +hard. I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript is +finished I know it by heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Look +at it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong with it." + +Father Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while Father +Collins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it. In +truth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top, +until the manuscript had been laid down. + +"My dear Collins, you are right," said Father Grady. "It is a good +sermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutely +nothing wrong with it." + +"But," urged Father Collins, "I shall spoil it." + +"Well," said his friend, "candor compels me to acknowledge that you +probably shall. I don't know why. Can't you raise your voice? Can't +you have courage? The people won't bite you. You can talk well enough +to the school children. You can talk well enough to me. Why can't you +stand up and be natural? Just be yourself and talk to them as you talk +to us. That is the whole secret." + +"It is my nervousness, Grady," said Father Collins. "I am afraid the +minute I enter the church to preach. When I open my mouth, I lose my +voice out of fear. That is what it is--fear. I am simply an arrant +coward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it." + +"Now, look here," said his companion earnestly, "you are not a coward. +You can preach. It is in you, and it will come out, yet. I call this +sermon nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace up now, +the occasion will come to loosen your tongue. It surely will." + +"This is the worst day I have had," groaned poor Father Collins. "I am +shaking like a leaf, already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor just +this once. You preach so easily. You can get up a sermon in half an +hour. You have nothing to do until half past ten. Now, let me go out +and make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o'clock +Mass. Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words to +them. You preach at High Mass." + +"Well, I ought not to do it," said Father Grady, thoughtfully, "for if +I do such things, it may spoil you. You ought not to give way, +but--you are white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it this +time, so I had better look over something." + +Father Collins was overjoyed. He could not help it. He went to the +church to prepare for the Mass and prompt to the minute he was in the +sanctuary. + +The Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the first Gospel, when the +Sacristan came to the priest's side and whispered a message. He was +plainly excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the congregation. +Father Collins leaned over to hear what he had to say. + +"Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the church basement now, +right under your feet. The firemen are working on it, but can't put it +out. We have stopped people from coming in to stampede the others. The +galleries are filled with the children, and we have to get them out, +first. If there is a rush the children will be killed at the bottom of +the gallery stairs, where they meet the people from the body of the +church out in that vestibule. The chief sent me to you to tell you to +go on preaching and hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes. +The firemen will get the little ones out without noise or fuss, if you +can keep the attention of the people. I'll whisper 'all right' to you +when they are gone. Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It is +the only chance you have to save those children in this ramshackle old +building, so you preach for all you are worth and don't let the people +look up at the galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owe +their lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort." + +The Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the priest thought of +the galleries emptying into the little vestibule and meeting a rush of +the people from the church. + +Father Collins took off his chasuble and maniple and placed them upon +the altar. He wondered at his own coolness. He advanced to the front +of the altar platform, opening his book; but he closed it again +coolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every corner of the +building, which he could not believe was his own, he began. + +"On second thought, my friends," he said, "I will not read the Epistle +or the Gospel to-day. I have a few words to say to you, though a +sermon is not expected at this Mass." + +In a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O'Brien groaned softly. They had +been caught by the dreaded sermon. + +Father Collins announced his text. The congregation was surprised that +it was to have a sermon instead of the usual reading, but it was more +surprised at the change in Father Collins; so much, indeed, that it +was almost breathless. The priest glanced up at the gallery, quickly, +and saw that the children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had ten +minutes to fill in. The people below could see only the front rows of +the gallery, which in this church, built in the old style, ran on +three sides. So Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he had +prepared for the High Mass, but which he could not deliver. The +beauty of it had been plain to Father Grady when he read it; but it +was plainer to the enraptured congregation which sat listening to +every syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O'Brien attempted to sleep. +In fact there were no sleepers at all, for upright in the pews sat +every man and woman, hanging on the preacher's words. + +In the midst of his discourse Father Collins detected the smell of +smoke and thought that all was lost. But he made another effort. His +voice rose higher and his words thundered over the heads of the +astonished people, who were so rapt that they could not even ask +themselves what had wrought the miracle. If they smelled the smoke, +they gave no sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held them +in the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins took another glance at +the gallery. The front row would go in a moment. Above all, the people +must not be distracted now. Something must be done to hold their +attention when the noise of the moving of that front row would fall +upon their ears. In two minutes all would be well. That two minutes +were the greatest of the priest's life. Into them centered every bit +of intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he possessed. He rapidly +skipped part of his sermon and came to the burst of appeal, with which +he was to close. The people could see him tremble in every limb. His +face was as white as his surplice. His eyes were wide open and +shining as if he were deeply moved by his own pleadings. He quickly +descended the steps of the altar and advanced to the railing. The +congregation did not dare to take its eyes away from him. The noise of +the departing children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of the +man had been transferred to his listeners. A whispered 'all right' +reached the priest from the lips of the Sacristan behind, and Father +Collins stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with which he +began his discourse. It was a soft, musical voice, that people till +now did not know he possessed. + +"My friends," he said, "keep your seats for a moment. Those in the +front pews will go out quietly now. Let one pew empty at a time. Do +not crowd. There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken out +below, and we want to take every precaution for safety." + +"Stop," he thundered, and his voice went up again. "You, who are +leaving from the center of the church, remain in your seats. Do not +start a rush. Do not worry about the children, they are all out. Look +at the galleries. They are empty. The children were cool. Do not let +the little ones shame you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance." + +With voice and gesture, he directed the movement of the people, and +then, the church emptied, he looked toward the vestry door. The +Sacristan was there. + +"Hurry, Father," he called, tearing off his cassock. "The floor here +may give way any moment. Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament. +Hurry!" + +They were out before the floor fell and the flames burst into the big +church, which, poor old relic of the days of wood, went down into the +ashes of destruction. + +Mr. O'Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home with Dr. Reilly, but +neither of them had much to say. Both paused at the corner where their +ways parted. + +Then Mr. O'Brien spoke: "What did you think of the sermon, Doc?" + +"I think," said the doctor, deliberately, "that though it cost us the +price of a new church, 'twas well worth it." + + + + +THE YANKEE TRAMP + + +They were old cronies, M. le Cure de St. Eustace and M. le Cure de +Ste. Agatha, though the priestly calling seemed all they had in +common. The first was small of stature, thin of face, looking like a +mediæval, though he was a modern, saint; the other tall, well filled +out like an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the nearest +approach to a scoffer in the two parishes, ever went so far as to call +the Cure of Ste. Agatha by such an undeserved name, since the good, +fat priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all the country +knew but never mentioned. They loved him too much to mention his +faults. He was good to the sick and faithful to their interests, +though--"_Il etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme_." +Besides, the Cure of St. Eustace was _too_ generous. Every beggar got +a meal from him and some of them money, till he spoiled the whole +tribe of them and they became so bold--well there was serious talk of +protesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his charities. + +The garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest place on earth for both +the cronies after Vespers had been sung in their parishes on Sunday +afternoons, and the three miles covered from the Presbytery of Ste. +Agatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. On a fine day it was +delightful to sit under the great trees and see the flowers and chat +and smoke, with just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing out +of Margot's kingdom. It was a standing rule that this meal was to be +taken together on Sunday and the visit prolonged far into the +night--until old Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and carried +his master off about half-past ten. _"Grand Dieu. Quelle +dissipation!"_ Only on this night did either one stay up after nine. + +What experiences were told these Sunday nights! Big and authoritative +were the words of M. le Cure de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending were +his comments and the accounts of his week's doings. And his friend's? +_Bien_, they were not much, but "they made him a little pleasure to +narrate"--what he would tell of them. + +This night they were talking of beggars, a new phase of the old +question. They had only beggars in Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. A +few pennies would suffice for them, and when they got old there were +always the good Sisters of the Poor to care for them. There were no +tramps. + +"This fellow was different, _mon ami_," the Cure de St. Eustace was +saying, "he would almost bother you yourself with all your experience. +He came from over the line--from the States, and he had a remarkable +story." + +"_Bien oui_, they all have," broke in his friend, "but I send them to +Marie and she feeds them--nothing more. They can not trap me with any +of their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. I am hard +of heart about such things, and very sensible." + +"Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the time till dinner. I +found the man seated on the gallery in front. He spoke only English. +When I came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely for a +Yankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no right to say that, for the +Yankees are as the _bon Dieu_ made them and they are too busy to be +polite. + +"'You are the priest?' he asked me. + +"'Yes, Monsieur, I am.' + +"'You speak English?' + +"'Enough to understand. What is it?' + +"'I am not a tramp, Father,'--he looked very weary and sad--'and it is +not money; though I am very hungry. You will give me something? +Thanks, but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can help--very +much.' + +"I gave him a seat and he dropped into it. + +"'Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I am just out of +prison. I was discharged yesterday in New York and I lost no time in +coming here. This is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago with +my chum. We were burglars and we were running away after a big +operation in New York. We had stolen $8,000 in money and valuables, +and we had it all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quiet +village till the storm would blow over. Among the valuables was a +strange ring. I had never seen anything like it and my chum wanted it +for himself, but we were afraid and took it to one of your +jewelers--right down the street to the left--Nadeau was his name--to +have it altered a little and made safe to wear. That little jeweler +suspected us. I saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed the +constable of the ring matter. We were watched and then we saw that it +would be better to go. We feared that the New York police would learn +of us, so we took the stuff out three miles in the country one dark +night and buried it. I know the spot, for it is near the old school +where the road turns for Sherbrooke. Then we went West, to Michigan. +We broke into a store there and we were arrested, but New York heard +of the capture and the Michigan authorities gave us up. We were tried +and a lawyer defended us by the Judge's order. He got us off with ten +years in Sing Sing. I have been there till yesterday, as I told you. +My chum? Well, that brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend to +break down. He is dead. He died well. A priest converted him, and my +chum repented of his life and begged me to change mine when I got out. +I am going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I'll never forget +his death. He called me and said: 'Bunky, that loot is worrying me. +The priest says that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs can +be found. If they can not it must be spent in works of charity. +Promise me that you will go to St. Eustace and get it, Bunky, and give +it back. Promise!' + +"Then he broke down, _mon ami_, and I fear that I cried just a little +too. It was sad, for he was a great strong man. + +"When he could, he looked up and continued: 'Well, Father, I am here +to do it. I want your help. May I have it?' + +"I told him I would do what I could. He wanted me to take the money +and give it to the owner. He would tell me his name. I was glad to aid +the poor man who was so repentant. + +"'All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable man to go with me +to-night. I can find the place,' he said. + +"I offered to send the sexton with him and let him have the pick and +shovel from the cemetery. I gave him food and thanked God as I watched +him eat, that grace was working in his heart again. + +"'I will wait for the man at seven to-night, Father,' he said when he +was leaving. 'Let him meet me with the horse and buggy just outside of +the town. If there is danger I will not see him, and he can return. I +will take the pick and shovel now, and bring the stuff to you in a +valise by 10 o'clock. Wait up for me.' + +"He left and the sexton went to the road at seven, but did not see +him. At 10 o'clock I heard him coming. It was very dark and he knocked +sharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door and he thrust a +valise into my hand. It was heavy. + +"'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when I will bring the key. +The valise is locked. Give me something that I may buy a night's +lodging and I will come back at seven.' + +"I gave him the first note in my purse and he hurried away. + +"Now I fear, _mon ami_, that I never quite overcame my childish +curiosity, for I felt a burning desire to see all that treasure, +especially the strange ring. I must root out that fault before I die +or my purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where I had a good +chisel, and I am sorry to confess that I opened the valise just a very +little to see the heap of precious things. There was an old cigar-box +and something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel down till I +opened the box. There was no treasure in it at all, but just a lot of +iron-shavings. I felt that I had been fooled and I broke the valise +open. The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of old +coupling-pins from the railroad. I was disgusted with this sinner, +this thief. But it was droll--it was droll--and I could scarcely +sleep with laughing at the whole farce. I know that was sinful. I +should have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee tramp." + +[Illustration: "Mon Dieu! It was mine."] + +"And the valise? What did you do with it?" asked the hard-hearted Cure +of Ste. Agatha, who must have felt sorry that the friend could be so +easily duped. "What did you do with the valise?" + +"I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me and I couldn't +understand why. It was so good--almost new. I felt that the sight of +it would make me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I wanted +to forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to the good Sisters at the +Hospital, to use when they must travel to Sherbrooke." + +The Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He plainly wanted to speak but +choked back twice. Then he rose and looked at his friend with a face +as red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took two steps, came +back, and spoke rapidly. "Do you think the Sisters will bring it back, +the valise? _Mon Dieu_! It was mine." + +Ten miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles from Ste. Agatha a +Yankee tramp was hurrying toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He had +the money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket keeping company +with one note from the purse of the generous Cure of St. Eustace and +one of a much larger denomination, from the wise but hard-hearted +Cure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps. + +And this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of St. Eustace saw it: +that some gloomy and worried millionaires are lost to the States, to +make a few irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their wits, and +whose sins even are amusing. One must not blame them overmuch. + +As to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no opinions on the matter at +all, for the Sisters gave him back his new valise. + + + + +HOW FATHER TOM CONNOLLY BEGAN TO BE A SAINT + + +If you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like him, because--well, +just because Father Tom Connolly was one of the kind whom everybody +liked. He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he was +big, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the _soggarth aroon_ +kind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get into +difficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you to +talk it all over with. But Father Tom had a large parish, in a +good-sized country town, to look after; and so, while you thought that +you might monopolize all of his sympathy in your bit of possible +trouble, he had hundreds whose troubles had already materialized, and +was waiting for yours with a wealth of experience which would only +make his smile deeper and his grasp heartier when the task of +consoling you came to his door and heart. + +Now, there lived in the same town as Father Tom another priest of +quite a different make. He, too, had a Christian name. It was Peter; +but no one ever called him Father _Peter_. Every one addressed him as +Father _Ilwin_. Somehow this designation alone fitted him. It was not +that this other priest was unkind--not at all--but it was just that in +Father Tom's town he did not quite fit. + +Father Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to build a new church, and +that on a slice of Father Tom's territory, which the Bishop lopped off +to form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He had no rich brogue on +his tongue to charm you into looking at his coat in expectation +of seeing his big heart burst out to welcome you. He was +thoughtful-looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his new +church building grew very slowly. + +I have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the life +of me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which the +villain--but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this +story has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day follows +night--for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare--that +when Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and just +as naturally--God help us--there was enough of human nature in Father +Tom to say, "I told you so" to himself, and to have him pity Father +Ilwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings more +than a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of his +people of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, "He meant well, good +lad," they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father Tom; but when +Father Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lips +tightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip his +heart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! and +human nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have to +give up. Of course, people _did_ say that Father Ilwin was ungracious +and unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I have +a tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the only +obstacle to his success was the _one_ that people never _could_ see, +and that the _obstacle himself_ was never _likely_ to see. + +But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom +believed in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. +So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a +friendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no +homes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every +little curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that +was enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the +same terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in +building the church across the river. The people understood. + +It had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse--not _too_ +large, but large enough--might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he +had "built his church by hard scraping, and that is how churches +should be built." Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on this +account. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me +to criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as a +father; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and +worn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seem +to sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there were +open murmurs that "the people had built one church and should not be +asked now to build another"; or "what was good enough for Father Tom +was good enough for anyone"; or "the Bishop should have consulted _us_ +before he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish." In the +other part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none +would think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father +Ilwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you +wonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from "the Rev. +Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen," to help in the +erection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it +and went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the +plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby? + +[Illustration: "Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, +where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, +and cried like a baby."] + +It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was +again much to his credit with the people. "Sure, _he_ never takes a +vacation at all," they said. But at last a call came that he could not +refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a +monastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see +a sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the +Southwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not--I do not know, and +I do not judge--that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to +the monastery that, "as the weather is warm, the father who comes to +take my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon." +It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside. +He could preach a little himself, and he knew it. + +It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom's +dying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the +train at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But he +soon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in a +buggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of +clerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its +occupant. + +"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?" + +"I am," said the priest in surprise. + +"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me." + +Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction. + +"You--you are a clergyman?" he stammered. + +"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a +Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians." + +If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no +more was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the +Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no +time. + +"Patrick," said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?" + +"Yes, Tom, he is." + +"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no +warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side." + +"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to +how I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite +right. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show +her." + +"How did _one_ stay?" + +"She didn't _stay_. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by a +priest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this +town for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I would +not have sent even for you, Tom, only _she_ made me." + +Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a +long minute. Then he took his brother's hand and said in his old boy +language: "Paddy, lad, tell me all about it--how you fell away. Maybe +there was something of an excuse for it." + +"I thought there was," said the dying man, "but now all seems +different. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic +settlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churches +built, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get +me, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. It +was a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; and +later a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and we +got together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in the +bank--one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got a +thousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringing +twelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back and +wait. Without church or priest, the children went to the +Sunday-schools and--I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift +until this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholics +together and converted my best--my baby girl--Kathleen. She was named +after mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars this +time, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help.' So +he went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to +help at all. They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad to +give something; but the priests said, 'No.' They thought helping was a +mistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred +dollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended the +struggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan went +away. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away.' My boy went to a +college his mother liked--and you saw him. The others--except +Kathleen--are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bear +before the judgment seat, but Tom--Tom, you don't know the struggle it +cost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight." + +A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand +which she took as she sat beside him. + +"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. She +sits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know it +won't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle where +there is a church and a chance to profit by it." + +Father Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later. + +He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephew +accompanied them to the train and said with unction: + +"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you," and Father Tom groaned down +to his heart of hearts. + +Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrived +home, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she saw +him and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said: + +"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another." + +"Yes, indeed, we do," cried the child. "Why, uncle, it was Father +_Peter_ who converted me." + +Father Tom heard, but did not say a word. + +It was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserable +little room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table still +reposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heard +outside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He had +profited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrived +at his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones. + +"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest and +Christian should--but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't. +Ilwin, _we_ can build that church and _we will_. Here are a thousand +dollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collection +for you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going about +with ye. I think I know where we can get some more." + +Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint. + + + + +THE UNBROKEN SEAL + + +The priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner of +the road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud +Run, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. He +was coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to +administer the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had +shot down the night before. + +Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest +while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate +alone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in the +rear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was glad +enough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in +his way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his very +best friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if he +had no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed +town. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caught +a few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster, +with that peculiar nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickened +his steps even more for it. + +"Company--oppressors of the poor--traitors"; even these few words, +which followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade. + +The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash +of glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw +that Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a +shawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from +the crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position +in front of the livery stable. + +A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the +street, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of them +saluted. "Bad business, Father," he said. "Will the lieutenant live?" + +"I am afraid he will not," answered the priest. + +"They will surely burn down the company's buildings," said the +soldier. "God! There they go now." And the soldier hurried on. + +Later the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded him +of blood, and he shuddered. + +His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper. + +"I can not go out much now," he said to her. "I am a Pole. What could +a Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or the +Italians whose language he can not speak?" + +He wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with his +servant? + +"Slevski," she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me +on the street this morning." + +"Yes," said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried to +speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these +men are his property now." + +"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday," said the old housekeeper. +"Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the +soldiers." + +"Never mind, Judith," said the priest, "at heart they are good people, +and this will pass away. The women fear God." + +"They fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski +always." + +The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which +could wait and does not grow old. + +After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of +the burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be +useless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to +the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots? + +A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The +priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's +wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was +English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her +three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited +for her to speak. + +"Tell me," she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a +confession may ever be revealed by the priest?" + +"It is true," he answered. + +"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged. + +"Even if he were to die." + +The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on: + +"May he even not betray it by an action?" + +"Not even by an action." + +"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety. + +"Even then." + +"I wish to confess," she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneel +afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must do +it quickly." + +"It will take only a minute if we go to the church," he answered. "It +is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, +unless in case of illness." + +"Then let us go," she said, "and hurry." + +They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the +confessional. Later she told all that had happened. + +"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession of +late?" + +"Three years ago," and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It was +before I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to +you. Listen now, for there isn't very much time." He bent his head and +said: "I am listening." + +She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. I +heard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I +could not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working +against the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a +sick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had +to warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--without a +prayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I +can say." + +"It is very simple," said the priest. "I need not go." + +"Then they will know that I told you," she answered breathlessly. Her +eyes showed her fright. + +"You are right," said the priest. "I fear that it would violate the +Seal if I refused to go." + +"Yes," she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, and +he--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused to +call you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I +am not ready to die--and he would kill me." + +"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care +of me," said the priest. "Finish your confession." + +In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and +his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and he +knew that the woman had been followed. + +He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide +open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back +to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and +finished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his +chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an +envelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm, +but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above +his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before +it. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and +whispering: + +"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity +on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You." + +Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did +not go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but had +the priest not seen him outside the church? + +The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath +of air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as +to what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the +altar, awaited his call. + +It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an +hour to summon him. + +"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is +for his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying." + +The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but +Kendis had left. + +The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his +favorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked at +it, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christ +gazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest's +eyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened the +door, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the street +his walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step of +a man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something. + +The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was +that night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them dragged +a heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another +sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary. + +Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was +sprung. + + + + +MAC OF THE ISLAND + + +When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving +me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space +upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen +minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only +outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives +call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that +stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his +rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, +made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer. + +We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It +was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; +but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and +cod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the +Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac. + +We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the +country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and +always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep +and kept bright green by the moisture. + +"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the +buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in +which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and +the bluer waters were blended. + +"Yes, I do," replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I +were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close +my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell +of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at +that," he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see +how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields. +Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed +through it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One +is called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a +funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them +by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever +set foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?" + +"Yes, yes," I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and--" But Mac +turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a +buggy. + +"Good morning, Doctor," he called. The doctor bowed with what looked +like gracious condescension. + +Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I +must love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way, +that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a +college in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very +important part of Island life." + +"But I do not think, Mac," I suggested, "that he was quite as +fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be." + +"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer," said Mac quickly. "In +fact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec +McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know that +Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this +Island--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's +farm. But say, Bruce," and Mac turned to me very quickly, "what +brought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit. +Now, own up." He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and +looked me in the face. "Surely," he went on, "you would not have +thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times." + +"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came," I answered, +"but you guess well, for this time I was sent." + +Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent? +Good! I am glad. Now, out with it." + +"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a +chance to get you." + +"Get me?" Mac grew grave again. + +"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old +Chalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than +the best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come, +and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you. +You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this." And I +waved my hand toward the bay. + +Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the +interview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the +conversation abruptly. + +"Look over there, Bruce," and he pointed with his whip toward the +distance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman +of Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around +here. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the +Interior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning +next. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the +Island itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'" + +"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac," I answered, not quite seeing why +he had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know _you_." + +"No," he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. It +would frighten them off. It would require explanations. What +difference if I have six letters after my name? To these people, +worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any +more." + +"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you; +you mustn't refuse." + +There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce, +old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not +know. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love +I have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine +that old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an +army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his +heart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in +this world I would rather have had than your message, but I must +refuse the offer." + +"Now Mac," I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you. +Scenery won't make up." + +"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it? +But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things +God made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not +think I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, if +you can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give +up one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix, +Bruce." + +"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?" I began +urging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card. +"Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life but +that farm, and you--heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one of +the greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe the +world something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressed +even the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You get +a curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call you +Alec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doing +work that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work that +no one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for other +people, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?" + +"Yes, Bruce." Mac said it sadly. "There's the rub. I was given +obligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now, +instead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I +want you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubborn +Islander. And there is home." + +He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from the +road nearly a quarter of a mile. Mac opened the gate, led the horse +through it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me. +There were tears in his brown eyes. + +"Is every one well?" said Mac hesitatingly. "Is everybody well--I mean +of the people I knew best back there?" he asked. I knew what he meant. + +"Yes, Mac, _she_ is well," I said, "and I know she is waiting." + +I had played my "trump card," but Mac was silent. + +The farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen door opened directly +on the farmyard, and around it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys, +ducks, geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate in the +flower-garden fence, and, passing through it, we walked along the +pathway before the house, so that I could enter through the front door +and be received in the "front room." Island opposition to affectation +or "putting on," as the people say, forbade calling this "front room" +a parlor. No one would think of doing such a thing, unless he was +already well along the way to "aristocracy." One dare not violate the +unwritten Island law to keep natural and plain. + +I noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the cultured accents of +the old college; but before others he spoke as the Islanders +spoke--good English, better English than that of the farmers I knew, +but flat--the extremity of plainness. I could not analyze that Island +brogue. It sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant only +because unsoftened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It struck +me as a sort of protest against affectation; as the Islander's way of +explaining, without putting it in the sense of the words, that he does +not want to be taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is a +notice that the user of it meets you man to man. So it reflected Mac, +and it reflected his people, unspoiled, unvarnished, true as steel, +full of rigid honesty; but undemonstrative, with the wells of +affection hidden, yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water. + +The "front room" had a hand-woven carpet on the floor, made of a +material called "drugget." A few old prints, in glaring colors, were +on the walls. There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking picture of +the dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an altar above and candles all +around it. It was a strange religious conceit. On another wall was a +coffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and framed, with a little +photograph of a young man in the center of the flowers. The chairs +were plain enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. It was +not Mac's kind of a room, at all. It made me shudder and wonder how +the scholar who loved his old book-lined college den and knew the old +masters, could even live near to it. + +Mac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who walked with a cane. +She was bent and wrinkled with age. I could see that she was blind. +She had a strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had only a +vague recollection of seeing as a boy, about her shoulders; and on her +head was a black cap with white ruching around her face. + +"My mother, Bruce," he said, very simply. + +As I took the old lady's hand, he said to her: "This is my old friend, +Professor Bruce, mother. He has come all the way from New York to see +me. I'll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sister has been +bedridden for years, Bruce." + +The old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. Mac smiled at me as he +led her to a chair and said: "Bruce does not look like a professor, +mother. He just looks like me." + +I could see all the Island respect for learning in the poor old lady's +deference. Mac left us, and his mother asked if I would not have some +tea. I refused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to the +hour of the evening meal. + +"So, you knew my son at college?" said the mother. + +"I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my dearest friend." + +The old lady began to cry softly. + +"I am so sorry," she said, "that he failed in his examinations, and +yet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, for it is a comfort to have him. +Ellie is a cripple and without Alec what would we do? Of course, if +he hadn't failed, I couldn't hope to keep him, so it is better, +perhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart boy and so anxious to get +on. It was a great disappointment to him; and then, of course, none of +us liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was not cut out for +something better than a farmer. But you must have liked him, when you +came all the way from New York to see him." + +I began to understand. + +That night I thought it all out in my little room, with the flies +buzzing around me and the four big posts standing guard over a feather +bed, into which I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac in +the morning. + +He had already done a good day's work in the fields, before I was up +for breakfast, so we went into the garden to thresh it out. + +"Mac," I said severely, "did you tell your mother and sister and the +people around here that you had failed in your examinations?" + +"Well, Bruce," he said haltingly, "I did not exactly tell them that, +but I let them think it." + +"Good Lord!" I thought, "the man who easily led the whole college." +But aloud: "Did you tell them you had no career open to you in New +York?" + +"Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too." + +"And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling scholarship you won, +or the offers that Yale made you?" + +"Oh, what was the use, Bruce?" said Mac desperately. "I know it was +wrong, but it was the only way I saw. Look here. When I got back home, +with all these letters after my name and that traveling scholarship to +my credit, I found sister as I told you she was--you'll see her +yourself this morning, poor girl--and mother blind. Brother, the best +brother that ever lived--it is his picture they have in that hideous +frame in the front room--died two months before I graduated. Bruce, +there was no one but me. If I had told the truth, they would not have +let me stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, sister never +wore a decent dress or a decent hat, and mother never had that thing +that every old lady on the Island prizes, a silk dress, just because +she saved the money for me. I told you that these people worship +learning after God." He put his hand to his eyes. "Bruce, I am lonely. +I have grown out of the ways of my people. But you wouldn't ask me to +grow out of a sense of my duty too?" + +"No, I don't want you to come with me, Mac," I said. "I am going back +alone. When you are free, the college is waiting. She can be as +generous as her son, and, I hope, as patient." + +Mac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with me again from its +summit over the waters of Pownal Bay. I understood now its appeal to +him. The waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his Promised +Land. Would Tea Hill, plain little eminence, be to Mac a new Mount +Nebo, from which he should gaze longingly, but never leave? + +Plain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, scholar with a great +mind, son and brother with heart of purest gold! I could not see you +through the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this your +Island of the good and true amongst God's children, but I could think +only of you as she passed the lighthouse, and the two tiny islands +that every one knows but no one visits, and moved down the Strait of +Northumberland toward the world that is yours by right of your genius, +that wants you and is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac, +though my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, so well, that +already had He given you treasures beyond a selfish world's ken to +value or to understand. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The City and the World and Other +Stories, by Francis Clement Kelley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + +***** This file should be named 15444-8.txt or 15444-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/4/4/15444/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. 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charset=us-ascii" /> + + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The City and The World and Other Stories, + by Francis Clement Kelley. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + /*<![CDATA[*/ + + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + max-width: 40em;} + p {margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + text-align: justify;} + /* Title ----------------------------------------------- */ + p.title1, p.title2, p.title3, p.title4 + {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + p.title1 {font-size: 250%;} + p.title2 {font-size: 200%;} + p.title3 {font-size: 100%;} + p.title4 {font-size: 120%;} + /* Front Matter ----------------------------------------- */ + p.fm1, p.fm2, p.fm3 {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + p.fm1 {font-size: 80%;} + p.fm2 {font-size: 90%;} + p.fm3 {font-size: 100%;} + p.fm4 {text-align: center; white-space: pre;} + /* First Letter ----------------------------------------- */ + h3+p:first-letter, p.dropcap:first-letter + {float: left; + padding-right: 0.1em; 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} + /* Headers ---------------------------------------------- */ + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + /* Horizontal Rules ------------------------------------- */ + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%; + margin-top: 1.5em;} + html>body hr {margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%; + width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 0%; + width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-left: 40%; margin-right: 40%; + width: 20%;} + /* General Formatting ---------------------------------- */ + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + span.pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 1%; right: 91%; + font-size: 8pt;} + .returnTOC {text-align: right; font-size: 70%;} + p.right {text-align: right; margin-right: 5%;} + p.close {margin-top: -1.0em;} + p.center {text-align: center;} + p.hang {text-indent: -.6em;} + p.heading {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + p.caption {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + .super {font-size: smaller; + vertical-align: 2px;} + /* Table of Contents ------------------------------------ */ + ul.TOC { /* styling the Table of Contents */ + list-style-type: none; /* a list with no symbol */ + position: relative; /* makes a "container" for span.tocright */ + margin-right: 5%; /* pulls the page#s in a skosh */ + } +ul.TOCSub { /* sub-entries in the TOC */ +list-style-type: none; +position: relative; /* makes a "container" for span.tocright */ +margin-right: 10%; /* pulls these page#s in even more*/ +} +span.tocright { /* use absolute positioning to move page# right */ +position: absolute; right: 0; +} +/* Footnotes -------------------------------------------- */ +.fnanchor {font-size: smaller; + vertical-align: 2px;} +.footnote {font-size: 0.9em; + margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} +/* Figures ---------------------------------------------- */ +.figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft , .figletter + {padding: 1em; + margin: 0; + text-align: center; + font-size: 0.9em;} +.figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img, .figletter img + {border: none;} +.figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The City and the World and Other Stories + +Author: Francis Clement Kelley + +Release Date: March 23, 2005 [EBook #15444] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. Shiffer and the +PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p class="title1"><i>The City and the World</i></p> +<p class="title2">and Other Stories</p> +<br /> +<p class="fm2">BY</p> + +<p class="fm3">FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY</p> + +<p class="fm2">Author of<br /> +"The Last Battle of the Gods," "Letters to Jack."<br /> +"The Book of Red and Yellow." Etc., Etc.<br /> +</p> +<br /> +<br /> +<p class="fm2">SECOND EDITION<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +EXTENSION PRESS<br /> +223 W. Jackson Boulevard<br /> +CHICAGO<br /> +1913<br /> +</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/cover-lg.jpg" name="figcover" id="figcover"> +<img src="images/cover-sm.jpg" alt="Book Cover: The City and the World and Other +Stories" /></a> +</div> + +<hr /> +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> + + +<p>These stories were not written at one time, nor were they intended +for publication in book form. For the most part they were +contributions to <i>Extension Magazine</i>, of which the author is Editor, +and which is, above all, a missionary publication. Most of them, +therefore, were intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories. +In fact, there was not even a remote idea in the author's mind when he +wrote them that some day they might be introduced to other readers +than those reached by the magazine itself. In fact, he might almost +say that the real object of most of the stories was to present a +Catholic missionary appeal in a new way. Apparently the stories +succeeded in doing that, and a few of them were made up separately in +booklets and used for the propaganda work of The Catholic Church +Extension Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so the +writer consented to allow the stories to appear in book form; hoping +that, thus gathered together, his little appeals for what he considers +the greatest cause in the world may win a few new friends to the ideas +which gave them life and name.</p> + +<p class="author">FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY.</p> +<br /> +<p class="letterClose3">Chicago, Illinois, July 30, 1913.</p> + +<hr /> +<br /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/front-lg.png" name="figfront" id="figfront"> +<img src="images/front-sm.png" alt=""Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a +cold fear."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a +cold fear."</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>CONTENTS</h2> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><b>TITLES</b><span class="tocright"><b>PAGE</b></span></li> +<li><br /><b>The City and the World</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page1">1</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Flaming Cross</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page20">20</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Vicar-General</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page44">44</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Resurrection of Alta </b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page53">53</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Man with a Dead Soul </b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page67">67</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Autobiography of a Dollar </b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page74">74</a></span></li> +<li><b>Le Braillard de la Magdeleine</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page82">82</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Legend of Deschamps</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page84">84</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Thousand Dollar Note</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page89">89</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Occasion</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page109">109</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Yankee Tramp</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page119">119</a></span></li> +<li><b>How Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page127">127</a></span></li> +<li><b>The Unbroken Seal</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page136">136</a></span></li> +<li><b>Mac of the Island</b> <span class="tocright"><a href="#page144">144</a></span></li> +</ul> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>[pg 1]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_CITY_AND_THE_WORLD" id="THE_CITY_AND_THE_WORLD"></a>THE CITY AND THE WORLD</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">FATHER DENFILI, old and blind, telling his beads in the corner of the +cloister garden, sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought him from his +confessional in the great church to the bench where day after day he +kept his sightless vigil over the pond of the goldfish, turned back at +the sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili's face, thought he +must have fancied the sigh. For sadness came alien to the little +garden of the Community of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous gem +of a little garden under its square of Roman sky. The dripping of the +tiny fountain, tinkling like a bit of familiar music, and the swelling +tones of the organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered beneath +the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged their murmurings into the +peacefulness of San Ambrogio, that Father Tomasso, just from the +novitiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have dreamed Father +Denfili's sigh. For what could trouble the old man here in San +Ambrogio on this, the greatest day of the Community? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>[pg 2]</span> +</p> + +<p>For to-day Father Ramoni had returned to Rome. Even as Father Tomasso +passed the fountain a group of Fathers and novices were gathering +around one of the younger priests, who still wore his fereoula and +wide-brimmed hat, just as he had entered from Via Paoli. The +newcomer's eyes traveled joyously over his breathless audience, +calling Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is true," he was saying. "I have just come from the audience. +Father General and Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariate +of State, but I came straight home to tell you. His Holiness was most +kind, and Father Ramoni was not a mite abashed, even in the presence +of the Pope. When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up and gave +him a seat. 'Tell me all about your wonderful people and your +wonderful work,' he said. And Father Ramoni told him of the thousands +he had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing of God, to do +so much. The Holy Father asked him every manner of question. He was +full of enthusiasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has done. He +is the greatest man in Rome to-day, is Ramoni. He will be honored by +the Holy See. The Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day for +our Community." The little priest paused for breath, then hastened on. +"Rome knows that our Father Ramoni has come back," he cried, "and Rome +has not forgotten ten years ago." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>[pg 3]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Was it ten years that Father Ramoni passed in South America?" a tall +novice asked Father Tomasso.</p> + +<p>"Ten years," said Father Tomasso. "He was the great preacher of Rome +when the old General"—he nodded toward the cloister corner where +Father Denfili prayed—"sent him away from Rome. No one knew why. His +fame was at its height. Men and women of all the city crowded the +church to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four years old. But +Father Denfili sent him away to Marqua, commanding the Superior of our +Order out there to send him to those far-off mountain people of whom +the papers were telling at that time. I did not know Father Romani +well. I was a novice at the time. But I knew that he did not want to +go from Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. Now, see what +has happened. He has converted over one-third of that people, and the +rest are only waiting for missionaries."</p> + +<p>"And the work is all Father Ramoni's?" the novice asked.</p> + +<p>"All." Father Tomasso drew him a little farther from the group that +still listened to the little priest who had come from the Vatican. +"Father Ramoni found that the people had many Christian traditions and +were almost white; but it was he who instilled the Faith in their +hearts. There must be thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now," he +continued +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>[pg 4]</span> +proudly, "and sooner or later, all novices will have to go +out there. Father Ramoni has made a splendid Prefect-Apostolic. No +wonder they have summoned him to Rome for consultation. I have +heard"—he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoulder to where +Father Denfili sat on the bench by the pond—"that it is certain that +Marqua is to be made a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops. +There is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they are training some of +the natives to be catechists. I tell you, Brother Luigi, missionary +history has never chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni has +wrought."</p> + +<p>From behind them came the rising voice of the little priest, bubbling +into laughter. "And as I came through the Pincio all that I heard was +his name. I had to wait for a duchessa's carriage to pass. She was +telling an American woman of the times when Father Ramoni had preached +at San Carlo. 'His words would convert a Hindu,' she was saying. And +the Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to tell me that he had +heard that Father Ramoni will be one of the Cardinals of the next +Consistory. Is it not wonderful?"</p> + +<p>The murmur of their responses went across the garden to old Father +Denfili. Father Tomasso, crossing the path with the novice, suddenly +saw a strange look of pain on the old priest's face, and started +toward him just as the gate to the cloister +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>[pg 5]</span> +garden swung back, +revealing a picture that held him waiting. Four men—a great Roman +prelate, the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and Father Pietro, +Ramoni's secretary—were coming into the garden. Of the four Father +Ramoni stood out in the center of the group as vividly as if a +searchlight were playing on his magnificent bigness. His deep black +eyes, set in a face whose strength had been emphasized by its exposure +to sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mood. His mouth, large, +expressive, the plastic mouth of the orator, was curving into a smile +as he gave heed to the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shook +his head as the great man, oblivious of their coming before a crowd of +intent watchers, continued the words he had been saying on Via Paoli.</p> + +<p>"And the Holy See is about to make your Marqua into a Province. Is it +not wonderful, Father Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift to +the people you converted? And yet to me it is more wonderful that you +wish to go back. Why do you not stay here? You, a Roman, would +advance."</p> + +<p>"Not now, Monsignore," the missionary answered quickly. They were +passing the group near the fountain, going toward the bench where +Father Denfili sat. Ramoni's secretary, a thin, serious-visaged priest +of about the same age as his Superior, with bald head and timid, +shrinking eyes, took with the greatest deference the cloak and hat +Father +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>[pg 6]</span> + Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old General. +The prelate answered Ramoni. "But you are right, of course," he +admitted. "It is best that you return. The Church needs you there now. +But later on—<i>chi lo sa</i>? You are to preach Sunday afternoon at San +Carlo? I shall be there to hear you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah, +you do well here! '<i>Filius urbis et orbis</i>—son of the city and the +world.' It's a great title, Ramoni!"</p> + +<p>They had come in front of the bench where Father Denfili told his +beads. The prelate turned to the old General of San Ambrogio with +deference. "Is it not so, Father?" he asked. But Father Denfili raised +his sightless eyes as if he sought to focus them upon the group before +him. Father Ramoni, laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joy +congealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He turned away +angrily, then recovered himself in time. Father Denfili was no longer +on the bench beside the pond. He was groping his way back to the +chapel.</p> + +<p>It was a month before the Consistory met to nominate the new hierarchy +for Marqua. It had been expected that the first meeting would end in +decisive action and that, immediately afterward, the great missionary +of the Community of San Ambrogio would return with increased authority +and dignity to his charge. But something—one of those mysterious +"somethings" peculiar to Rome—had happened, and the nominations were +postponed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>[pg 7]</span> +</p> + +<p>In the month that Father Ramoni remained in Rome he had tasted the +fruits of his old popular success. On his first Sunday at home he +preached in San Carlo as well as ever—better than ever. And the awed +crowd he looked down on at the end of his sermon took away from the +church the tidings of his greater power. From that time nearly every +moment was taken by the demands of people of position and authority, +who wished to make the most of him before he went back to Marqua. He +scarcely saw his brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he went +to the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no time to loiter in +the garden, and the story of the conversion of the people of Marqua +was left to the quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of his +Superior's great work, till Father Tomasso and Brother Luigi prayed to +be given the opportunity to be Ramoni's servants in the far-away land +of the western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister, +he did not avoid Father Denfili. The old blind priest seemed to meet +him everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where +he preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies. Once +Ramoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during a +conference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden +gave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, even +though Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>[pg 8]</span> +</p> + +<p>On the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detained +in the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressed +his desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili on +his way to the reception-room. While Father Ramoni, summoning his +secretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of the +South American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped along +the wall till he reached the General's office. He had come to the door +when he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on the +white faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutely +at the letter the former held. He heard the General call Father +Tomasso. "Take this to Father Pietro, my son," he said. Then he +listened to the younger priest's retreating footsteps.</p> + +<p>Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of the +General's tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubled +excitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was just +leaving. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he was +returning to their case the photographs of Marqua. Tomasso laid the +letter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding his +visitor a gay good-bye, turned back.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/008-lg.png" name="fig008" id="fig008"> +<img src="images/008-sm.png" alt=""I can't take it," he was sobbing, "it's a mistake, a +terrible mistake."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"I can't take it," he was sobbing, "it's a mistake, a +terrible mistake."</p> +</div> + +<p>Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope. He +read it with puzzled wonder +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>[pg 9]</span> +rising to his eyes. Before he came to its +end he was on his feet.</p> + +<p>"No! No!" he cried. "It is impossible. It is a mistake."</p> + +<p>Father Ramoni turned quickly. The man who had been his faithful +servant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him. "What is a +mistake, Pietro?" he asked, coming to the table.</p> + +<p>"The Consistory," Father Pietro stammered, "the Consistory has made a +mistake. They have done an impossible thing. They have mixed our +names. This letter to the General—this letter—" he pointed to the +document on the table "—says that I have been made Archbishop of +Marqua."</p> + +<p>Ramoni took the letter. As he read it he knew what Pietro had not +known. The news was genuine. The name signed at the letter's end +guaranteed that. Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of the +blow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain that +would stay. He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who +sat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands.</p> + +<p>"I can't take it," he was sobbing; "I am not able. It's a mistake, a +terrible mistake."</p> + +<p>Ramoni put his hand on the other man's head. "It is true, Pietro," he +said. "You are Archbishop of Marqua. May God bless you!"</p> + +<p>But he could say no more. Pietro was still weeping when Ramoni went +away, crossing the cloister on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>[pg 10]</span> +his way to his cell, where, with the +door closed behind him, he fought the battle of his soul.</p> + + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<p>IN the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat looking dully at the +softened tones of the wall, trying to evolve some order of thought +from the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment had plunged +his mind. It was late in the night before the situation began to +outline itself dimly.</p> + +<p>His first thought was, curiously enough, not of himself directly, but +of the people out in Marqua who were anxiously looking for his return +as their leader, confident of his appointment to the new +Archbishopric. He could not face them as the servant of another man. +From the crowd afar his thoughts traveled back to the crowd on the +Pincio—the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. He would +go no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with that +cynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved for +his servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome ten +years before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he had +converted, Pietro, the Consistory—everything. For that black and +bitter night the Church, which he had loved and reverenced, looked to +him like the root +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>[pg 11]</span> +of all injustice. The more he thought of the slight +that had been put upon him, the worse it became, till the thought +arose in him that he would leave the Community, leave Rome, leave it +all. After long hours, anger had full sway in the heart of Father +Ramoni.</p> + +<p>At midnight he heard the striking of the city's clocks through the +windows, the lattices of which he had forgotten to close. The sound of +the city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who had +returned with him to San Ambrogio from his first audience with the +Holy Father—"<i>Filius urbis et orbis</i>." How bitterly the city had +treated him!</p> + +<p>A knock sounded at his door. He walked to it and flung it open. His +anger had come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only a +hand at the door-casing, groping with a blind man's uncertainty. Then +he saw the old General.</p> + +<p>In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man. +Instantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, of +those following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of +the priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearful +was his anger as he held it back with the rein of years of +self-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling.</p> + +<p>"May I enter, my son?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"You may enter." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>[pg 12]</span> +</p> + +<p>The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him with +glowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him +he did not flinch.</p> + +<p>"You are disappointed, my son?" the old man asked with a gentleness +that Ramoni could not apprehend, "and you can not sleep?"</p> + +<p>Ramoni's anger swept the question aside. "Have you come here, Father +Denfili," he cried, "to find out how well you have finished the +persecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quite +consoled. It is finished to-night." His anger, rushing over the gates, +beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was +a passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when +the old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been +put upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of +this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the +old man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of +patience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke.</p> + +<p>"You did not pray, my son?"</p> + +<p>"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined. +I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel."</p> + +<p>"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God, +and God alone; even if there be a thousand present." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>[pg 13]</span> +</p> + +<p>"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you +think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was +not God who did it—it was you! You interfered with His work. I know +it."</p> + +<p>"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is +right for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was +consulted, and I advised Pietro."</p> + +<p>"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other.</p> + +<p>"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old +voice. "Yet must I say it—my son. With even more reason than ever +before I must say it to you to-night."</p> + +<p>The old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find the +beads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid the +string across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see he +kept tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were +turned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could +see, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a +movement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may be +given a finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili was +looking where only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of +another.</p> + +<p>"Son of the city and the world," he said. "I heard Monsignore call you +that, and he was right. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>[pg 14]</span> + A son of the city and of the world you are; +but alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than +you have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have not +long to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you +to-night." Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "I +received you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you +better than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God +had given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew +before any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, +though I did not know what it was that you would do. I was a man with +little, but I could admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to lay +before Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make +<i>you</i> my great work. That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua. +I am the Apostle of Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear +that I would be cheated of my reward."</p> + +<p>Ramoni turned to him. "Your reward? I do not understand."</p> + +<p>"My reward," the old man repeated. "I watched over you, I instructed +you, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking +you, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in your +soul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that +there was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>[pg 15]</span> +the world had to offer you—the old, old conflict between the city +and the world. I always feared it. All unknown to you I watched the +fight, and I saw that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent you +to Marqua."</p> + +<p>The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that +streamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. "I am afraid, my son," +the voice came again, "that you never knew the city—well called the +Eternal—where with all the evil the world has put within its walls +the good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, +and you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no other +right to existence at all. There is only one royalty that may live in +Rome. We, who are of the true city, know that.</p> + +<p>"And you, too, might have been of the city. The power of saving +thousands was given to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one. +I had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. Only a saint +may live to be praised and save himself—in Rome.</p> + +<p>"When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as your +merit, your salvation. Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was +born. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if you could +make it? Alas, you can not! Then it will have to grow on Pietro's +pain.</p> + +<p>"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>[pg 16]</span> +heard you. You want +to go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work.' You +think that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor of +the city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are +not yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have +forgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world an +apostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an +apostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?"</p> + +<p>The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. "What +would you take back to Marqua?" he demanded. "Nothing but your purple +and your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in the +midst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of +their sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you +might have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you, +for the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that you +may learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of a +people."</p> + +<p>Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man's +words died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in another +room. Once more the old man took up his speech.</p> + +<p>"They are Pietro's steps," he said. "All night long I have heard you +both. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthy +to bear, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>[pg 17]</span> +while you have been raging that you were not permitted to +bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again +if he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in +loving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you were +leading to Him."</p> + +<p>The old man arose. He put out his hand to grope his way back to the +door. It touched Ramoni, sitting rigid. He did not stir. The hand +reached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind +man to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a word he followed the +other. When he had overtaken him he laid his hand gently on the blind +man's arm and led him back to his cell.</p> + +<p>When he came back the door of the chapel was open. Ramoni, going +within, found Pietro there, prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoni +knelt at the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not pray. He +only gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. And while he knelt the Great +Plan unfolded itself to him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who has +traveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, he +could see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. There +came back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, his +ceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant villages, his zeal, +his solicitude to save his superior for the more serious work of +preaching. Pietro had been jealous of the slightest infringement on +his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>[pg 18]</span> +right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Before God the +conquest of Marqua had been Pietro's first, since he it was who had +toiled and claimed no reward.</p> + +<p>A great peace suddenly mantled the troubled soul of Father Ramoni, and +with it a great love for the old General whose hand had struck him. He +thought of the painting hanging near where he knelt—"Moses Striking +the Rock." The features of Father Denfili merged into the features of +the Law Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the rock, barren and +unprofitable. He fell on his face, and then his prayer came:</p> + +<p>"Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if there be aught of living +water within, let me give one drop for thirsty souls yet ere I am +called."</p> + +<p>He could utter no other prayer.</p> + +<p>Morning found both master and servant, now servant and master, before +the altar where both were servants.</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<p>IT was fifteen years later when the brethren of the little Community +of San Ambrogio gathered in their chapel to sing the requiem over +their founder and first General, Father Denfili, who died, old and +blind, after twenty years of retirement into obscurity. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>[pg 19]</span> + But there +were more than his brethren there. For all those years he had +occupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in the +chapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, the +brethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them many +distinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation that +his obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates, +priests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were those +who had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint.</p> + +<p>But there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity and +sanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning when +he said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of Father +Denfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward Via +Paoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altar +of the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that needed +all their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the City +and the World. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>[pg 20]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_FLAMING_CROSS" id="THE_FLAMING_CROSS"></a>THE FLAMING CROSS</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<h3>I.</h3> + + +<p>IT was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose from +a table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator for +their hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightful +to all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, to +give the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days, +and keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was old +enough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's was +a fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or +society had grown half so precious for any one of these three men as +were the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had bound +to him.</p> + +<p>The difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked. +Thornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short, +fat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. His +stubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's had +found its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he had +always been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neither +of his friends liked many of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>[pg 21]</span> +actions, nor the stories told of +him; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silently +sorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville and +Callovan waited and hoped for "old Thornton"; but the wait had been +long and the hope very much deferred.</p> + +<p>Callovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair of the Milesian spoke +for him as clearly as the blue-gray eye. He shaved clean and he looked +clean. An ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him to +almost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was ruddy and fresh. Two +years younger than Thornton, he yet looked younger by five. And +Callovan, like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs promised.</p> + +<p>Orville was tall and straight. The ghost of a black mustache was on +his lip. His hair was scanty, and was parted carefully. His dress +showed taste, but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well groomed +and particular, without obtrusiveness in any one of the points. He was +just a little taller than Callovan; but he was grayer and a great deal +more thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even for an intimate; but +the print was large, if the text was puzzling. He looked to be "in" +the world, but who could say if he were "of" it?</p> + +<p>All three of these friends were very rich. Thornton had made his money +within five years—a lucky mining strike, a quick sale, a move to the +city, speculation, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>[pg 22]</span> +politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-fire +story that the other friends never cared to hear the details of. +Callovan inherited his wealth from his hard-fisted old father, who had +died but a year before. Orville was the richest of the three. He had +always been rich. His father had died a month before he was born. His +mother paid for her only child with her life. Orville's guardian had, +as soon as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur's Preparatory School and +then in the College; but he was a careful and wise man, this guardian, +so, though plenty of money was allowed him, yet the college +authorities had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing boy and +youth in amounts that could neither spoil nor starve him. It was good +for Orville that the guardian had been thus wise and the college +authorities thus prudent. He himself was generous and kind-hearted; by +nature a spendthrift, but by training just a bit of a miser. He had +learned a little about values during these school and college days.</p> + +<p>"Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville," said the doorman, when the +three moved to leave the club.</p> + +<p>"Very unlike your careful Michael," remarked Callovan.</p> + +<p>Orville came at once to the defense of his exemplary chauffeur. "I +gave him permission to go to St. Mary's to-night for confession," he +said. "Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to confession +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>[pg 23]</span> +every +Saturday night and is a weekly communicant. I can stand a little +tardiness once a week for the sake of having a man like Michael +around."</p> + +<p>"Good boy is Michael," put in Thornton. "I wish I could get just a +small dose of his piety. Candidly, I am awfully lonesome sometimes +without a little of it.</p> + +<p>A page came running up. "Telephone for you, Mr. Orville," he said; and +at almost the same moment the doorman called out: "Your car is here +now, sir." Orville went to the telephone booth, but returned in a +moment.</p> + +<p>"Lucky for us that we waited," he said. "It was Marion who called. She +is at the Congress, and she wants me to take her home. She came +down-town with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and that +worthless pup has gone off and left her. She knew that I was here +to-night, and 'phoned, hoping to catch me. We will pass around by the +hotel and take her back with us."</p> + +<p>When the friends came out, Michael was standing with his hand on the +knob of the big limousine's door. "I am sorry if I made you wait, +sir," he said. "I had a fainting spell in the church and could not get +away sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart attack; but I am all +right now."</p> + +<p>Orville answered kindly. "I am sorry you were ill, Michael, but we are +glad enough that you were late. That ill wind for you blew good to us, +for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>[pg 24]</span> +we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been on time we +would have missed her. Go around to the Congress first."</p> + +<p>The car glided down Michigan avenue to the hotel, where Marion was +already waiting in the ladies' lobby. She looked just what she was, +the pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. Tonight her cheeks +were flushed and her hand was very unsteady. Orville noticed both when +she entered the car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancée. He +knew that she was usually full of life and spirit; but this midnight +gaiety worried him, and all the more that he loved the girl sincerely.</p> + +<p>Marion talked fast and furiously, railing continually at her brother; +but she averted her face from Orville as much as possible and spoke to +Thornton. Orville said nothing after he had greeted her.</p> + +<p>The car sped on, passed the club again and down toward the bridge at +the foot of the avenue. Marion was scolding at Thornton as they +approached the bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staring +straight ahead, so only he saw Michael's hand make a quick movement +toward the controller, and another movement, at the same time, as if +his foot were trying to press on the brake; but both movements seemed +to fall short and Michael's head dropped on his breast. Alarmed, +Orville looked up. He had a swift glimpse of a flashing red light. A +chain snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>[pg 25]</span> + Thornton, and +a scream from Marion. Then, in an instant, he felt the great weight +falling, and a flood of cold water poured through the open window of +the car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of water against it +made this impossible. The car filled and the door moved. He was pushed +out. He thought of saving Marion; but all was dark around him. He +tried to call, but the water choked him. He could only think a prayer, +before he seemed to be falling asleep. Everything was fading away +before him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; so only +vaguely did he realize the tragedy that had fallen upon him.</p> + + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<p>WHEN light and vision came back to Orville, he was standing up and +vaguely wondering why. Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side by +side. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All were changed; but +Orville could not understand just in what the change consisted. In +Thornton and Marion the change was not good to look at, and Orville +somehow felt that it was becoming more marked as he gazed. Michael was +almost transformed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on his +face. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville naturally smiled back at +them. Thornton was frowning, and Marion looked horrible in her +terror. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>[pg 26]</span> + Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced about him +and saw thousands of men and women, all smiling or frowning, like his +companions. Several seemed to be about to begin a journey and were +moving away from the groups, most of them alone. Some had burdens +strapped to their shoulders and bent under them as they walked. Those +who were not departing were preparing for departure; but Orville could +see no guides about. All the travelers appeared to understand where +they were to go.</p> + +<p>Orville watched the groups divide again and again, wondering still, +not knowing the reason for the division. Some took a road that led +upward to a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome road. Orville +could see men and women far above on that road, dragging themselves +along painfully. Another road led down into a valley; but Orville +could not see deep into that valley, because of a haze which hung over +it. He looked long at the road before he noticed letters on a rock +which rose up like a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that later +he would go over and read them. But first he wanted to ask questions.</p> + +<p>"Michael, what does all this mean?" Orville said; all the time +marveling that it was to his servant he turned for information.</p> + +<p>Michael still smiled, and answered: "It means, sir, that we are +dead." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>[pg 27]</span> +</p> + +<p>Orville was astonished that he felt neither shocked nor startled. +"Dead? I do not quite understand, Michael. You are not joking?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over the bridge a minute ago. +Our bodies are in the river now, but we are here."</p> + +<p>"Where?" asked Orville.</p> + +<p>Michael answered, "That I do not know, sir, except that we are in The +Land of the Dead."</p> + +<p>"But you seem to know a great deal, Michael," said Orville.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Michael; "I died a minute before you, sir, so I came +earlier. I was dead on my seat when we struck the chain and broke it. +One learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can you see +anything at the top of that mountain?"</p> + +<p>Orville looked up and saw a bright light before him on the very summit +and seemingly at the end of the road. As he gazed it took the form of +a Flaming Cross.</p> + +<p>"I see a Cross on fire, Michael," he said. Michael answered simply: +"Thank God."</p> + +<p>"I can see a Flaming Cross, too," said Callovan, speaking for the +first time. "I can see it, and what is more, I am going up to it; let +us not delay an instant"; and Callovan began to gird his +strange-looking garment about him for the climb.</p> + +<p>Then Orville knew that he himself was drawn toward that Flaming Cross. +There was a something +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>[pg 28]</span> +urging him on. His whole being was filled with +a desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared quickly for the +ascent.</p> + +<p>"Wait a moment, sir," said Michael. "Do the others see nothing on the +mountain?"</p> + +<p>Thornton and Marion, still frowning, were looking down into the haze +of the valley. They were paying no attention to their friends.</p> + +<p>"Come, let us go," said Thornton to the girl, as he pointed to the +road which led down into the valley.</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Michael, "not there. Look up at the mountain. What do +you see?"</p> + +<p>Both Marion and Thornton glanced upward. "I see nothing," said Marion.</p> + +<p>"I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant-looking," said Thornton. +"Come, Marion, let us go at once."</p> + +<p>Orville, alarmed, called out: "Marion, you will surely come with me."</p> + +<p>The frown on her face changed to a look of awful sadness, but she put +her hand into Thornton's while saying to Orville: "I can not go there +with you—not upward. I must enter the valley with him." She moved +away, her hand still in Thornton's. Orville watched them go, only +wondering why he had no regrets.</p> + +<p>"Michael," he said, "I loved her on earth. Why am I unmoved to see her +leave me?"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/028-lg.png" name="fig028" id="fig028"> +<img src="images/028-sm.png" alt=""But when their feet touched the road, they turned and +looked their terror."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"But when their feet touched the road, they turned and +looked their terror."</p> +</div> +<p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>[pg 29]</span> +</p> + +<p>But Michael answered, "It is not strange in The Land of the Dead. +There are stranger partings here; but all of them are like +yours—tearless for those who see the Cross."</p> + +<p>Thornton and Marion by this time had entered the valley road and were +on the other side of the rock gateway. But when their feet touched the +road they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they recoiled and +struck viciously at each other. Then they parted. With the wide road +between them they went down into the valley and the haze together.</p> + +<p>Orville read the words on the rock gateway, for now they stood out so +that he could see plainly, and they were: "THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING." +"Michael," he said, "what does it mean?"</p> + +<p>Michael answered, "She could not see the Cross here, who would not see +it on earth. It repelled him, who so often had repelled it in life."</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<p>NEITHER Orville nor Callovan was at all moved by the tragedy each had +witnessed. Orville's love for Marion was as if it had never existed. +The friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slightest assert +itself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the overpowering sense of +another feeling—a feeling of victory for some Great Friend or +Cause—left the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>[pg 30]</span> +knew +that Thornton and Marion had passed out of their ken forever, and in +the future would be to them as if they had not been. All three made +haste to go toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. Then +upon Orville's shoulders he felt a heavy burden, but still heavier was +one which was bending Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight, +without a weight upon him.</p> + +<p>"It will be hard to climb to the Cross with these burdens, Michael," +said Orville.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, it will," said Michael, "but you must carry them. You +brought them here. They are the burdens of your wealth. They will +hamper you; but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be well."</p> + +<p>"Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches?" asked both Orville and +Callovan in the same breath.</p> + +<p>"They are your riches," replied Michael. "I have no burden, for I had +no riches. Poor was I on earth, and unhampered am I now for the climb +to the Cross. Look yonder." He pointed to a man standing at the fork +of the roads. His burden was weighing him to the earth. "He brought it +all with him, sir," continued Michael; "in life he gave nothing to +God. Now he must carry the burden up to the Cross, or leave it and go +the other road. He sees the Cross, too; but it will take ages for him +to reach it."</p> + +<p>The man had thrown down the burden and now started to climb without +it. But unseen hands lifted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>[pg 31]</span> +it back to his shoulders. Men and women +going to the other road beckoned him to throw it away again and come +with them; but he had seen the Cross and, keeping his eyes fixed upon +it, he crawled along with his burden upon him, inch by inch, up the +mountain.</p> + +<p>"In life he was good and faithful, but he did not understand that +riches were given him to use for a purpose and that he was not, +himself, the purpose," said Michael. "It was a miracle of grace that +he could see the Cross at all."</p> + +<p>"I knew that man in life," said Callovan. "But why is not my burden +heavier than his? I was richer by far."</p> + +<p>"You lightened it by more charity than he," said Michael, "but you did +not lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all that +you had, you would now be even as I am—free of all burden."</p> + +<p>"I wish I had known that," said Callovan.</p> + +<p>"But, alas! you did know," replied Michael. "We all knew these things. +We are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man +with the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on your +way, yet he has been dead now for a year."</p> + +<p>Callovan looked up and gasped: "My father!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; your father," said Michael. "You had more charity than he, and +when you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>[pg 32]</span> + +Cross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith."</p> + +<p>"Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to his +side?" asked Callovan.</p> + +<p>"I think," replied Michael, "that you may; but you could have helped +him better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probably +may go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross, +and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain."</p> + +<p>They had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orville +could read the words which marked the mountain road: "THE ROAD OF PAIN +AND HOPE."</p> + +<p>"But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it," said Michael. "We +must leave you here, sir," he said to Callovan, turning to him. "You +have far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than my +master's, and then you must be lonely for a while."</p> + +<p>"But why must I be lonely?" asked Callovan.</p> + +<p>"For many reasons, sir," replied Michael. "You will know them all as +you go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few things +now. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin to +you. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimage +to the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to +enjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>[pg 33]</span> +alone. Then you have +few to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life did +not and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but the +only prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. One +priest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He +was a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at your +burial, and again, too, before the climb is over."</p> + +<p>"But, Michael," said Callovan, "I gave a great deal to many good +works. Will none of the gifts count for me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but," answered Michael, +"the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they were +to God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land of +Death. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer your +question."</p> + +<p>Callovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork of +the roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw +the Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on the +ground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountain +road, knowing that the burden must go with him.</p> + +<p>"I have seen that man before," said Orville. "They gave him a +reception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist—yet, look +at his burden." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>[pg 34]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road without +Ending," said Michael. "He has many amongst those who can hate for +eternity to hate him."</p> + +<p>Suddenly from the multitude of the dead came men and women, who looked +with hatred upon the old man, and surrounded him on every side and +menaced him with threatening fists. "Beast!" shouted one. "I saw the +Cross in life, when I was young. The unbelief your work taught denies +me the sight of it in death. I curse you!"</p> + +<p>"One year in the schools you founded," wailed another, "lost me my +God."</p> + +<p>"Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of the Cross, you +hypocrite?" cried another. "You have, in the name of a false science, +encouraged by your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You shall +not go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even though you might have to +climb till Judgment. You shall go with us."</p> + +<p>Screaming in terror, the old man was dragged away. They could hear his +voice in the distance, as the multitude drove him along The Road +without Ending.</p> + +<p>"Alas, I understand—now," sadly said Callovan. He gazed at his +friends with some of the pain of his coming solitude in his eyes. +"Good-bye. Shall we meet again?"</p> + +<p>Michael answered: "We shall meet again. Your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>[pg 35]</span> +pain may be very great; +but there is an end. He who sets his foot on this Road has a promise +which makes even pain a blessing."</p> + +<p>Callovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael climbed faster than +he.</p> + +<p>"Michael," said his master, "I am greatly favored. He was much better +in life than I, yet now he climbs alone."</p> + +<p>"You are not favored, sir," answered Michael. "Many pray for you, +because you loved the poor and sheltered and aided them. He has all +that is his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is yours. Do +not forget that we are marching toward the Sun of Justice."</p> + +<p>And so they went on, over The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville's feet +were weary and bleeding. His hands and knees were bruised by falls. +The adders stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain chilled him +and warm blasts oppressed him. He was one great pain; but within a +voice that was his own kept saying: "I go to the Cross, I go to the +Cross," and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for an +instant; but the thought brought him no longing to return. His breast +was swelling and seemed bursting with a wonderful great Love that made +him content with every tortured step. He even seemed to love the pain; +and he could not stop, nor could he rest for the Flaming Cross that +was drawing him on. He longed for it with a burning and intense + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>[pg 36]</span> +desire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devotion, and his whole +being cried out: "More pain, O Lord! more pain, if only I may sooner +reach the Cross!"</p> + +<p>But Michael tried to ease his master's burden.</p> + +<p>At last Orville said to him: "How many ages have passed since I died?"</p> + +<p>"You have been dead for ten minutes, sir," answered Michael. "The +minutes are as ages in the Land of Death until you reach the Cross, +and then the ages are as minutes."</p> + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<p>THEY kept toiling on, but had known no darkness along The Road of Pain +and Hope. Orville's hand sought Michael's, and it opened to draw him +closer. "Michael, my brother," he said, "may you tell me why there is +no night?"</p> + +<p>Michael smiled again when Orville called him "brother" and answered: +"Because, my master, on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair; +but it is always night along The Road without Ending."</p> + +<p>"Can you tell me, Michael, my brother," said Orville, "Why my eyes +suffer more keenly than all the rest?"</p> + +<p>"Because," said Michael, "your eyes, master, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>[pg 37]</span> +have offended most in +life, and so are now the weakest."</p> + +<p>"But my hands have offended, too," said Orville, "and behold, they are +already painless and cured of the bruises."</p> + +<p>"Your hands are beautiful and white, master," said Michael, "and were +little punished, because they were often outstretched in charity and +in good deeds."</p> + +<p>They had come to the brink of a Chasm which it seemed impossible to +cross, but they hoped, for they knew no despair. Multitudes of people +were before them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at the +other side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by unseen hands, and +carried across the Chasm. Some Power there was to bear them which +neither Orville nor Michael understood. Many, however, had waited +long, while some were taken quickly. Every hand was outstretched +toward the Cross, and it could easily be seen that waiting was a +torture worse than the bruises.</p> + +<p>"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "it is harder to suffer the wait than +the pain."</p> + +<p>"Yes, master," Michael replied, "but this is The Chasm of Neglected +Duties. We must stay until those we have fulfilled may come to bear us +across. The one who goes first will await the other on the opposite +side."</p> + +<p>"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "you must wait +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>[pg 38]</span> +for me. I have few good +deeds and few duties well done."</p> + +<p>Even as he spoke, Michael's face began to shine and his eyes were +melting. Orville looked and saw a little child with great wings, and +beautiful beyond all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with the +deepest love and longing. Her voice was like the music of a harp, and +she spoke but one little word:</p> + +<p>"Daddy!"</p> + +<p>"Bride! My little Bride," whispered Michael.</p> + +<p>Orville knew her, Michael's first-born child, who had died in infancy. +He remembered her funeral. In pity for poor Michael, and feeling a +duty toward his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church and +to the grave, and had borne the expenses of her burial. His friends +wondered at such consideration for one so far beneath him.</p> + +<p>"Daddy," whispered the beautiful spirit, "I am to bring you across, +and master, too. God sent me. And, daddy, there are millions of +children who could bring their parents over quickly, if they had only +let them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who gave me life, +baptism and Heaven. Had I lived only a minute, it would have been +worth it. And, daddy, mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for you +both."</p> + +<p>Then the beautiful child touched and supported them, and lo! they were +wafted across The Chasm of Neglected Duties: Michael, because he +followed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>[pg 39]</span> +the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacrament to fulfil +the law of God; Orville, because he had shown mercy and recognition of +his servant's claim upon him.</p> + +<p>Without understanding why, Orville found himself repeating over and +over again the words: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain +mercy." Michael heard him and turned to say: "Yes, master, and +'Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God'! How well it +was for us that we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when we +came to The Chasm of Neglected Duties."</p> + + +<h3>V.</h3> + +<p>"MICHAEL," said Orville, after a long and tiresome climb over a steep +part of the Road, "these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I have +toiled hard and have made but very little progress."</p> + +<p>"I know, master," said Michael, "but these rocks are the little faults +of our lives. Such rocks cover the mountain at this spot and are +constantly growing more numerous, yet one meets only one's own. The +Plain is not far away now. We are just reaching it, and these stones +are the only way to it."</p> + +<p>"What Plain is it, Michael?" asked Orville.</p> + +<p>"It is called, master," said Michael, "The Plain of Sinful Things. It +is between us and the foot of the Cross." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>[pg 40]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Is it hard to pass over, Michael?" again asked Orville.</p> + +<p>"It is very hard to most men, sir," said Michael. "No one knows how +hard who has not been on it; and yet when one has been over, one +remembers nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross is +reached."</p> + +<p>They stood now at the top of the stones, and on the edge of the vast +Plain, which lay white and scorching before them. Multitudes, as far +as the eye could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully along; +but none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The Flaming +Cross.</p> + +<p>Michael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orville +looked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice the +change in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. His +garments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a light +played, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrous +than dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone like +his visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael, +but voices which spoke to Michael only.</p> + +<p>"Michael, my brother," he said, "what is this; tell me?" and Orville's +voice sounded soft, as if he were praying. "Michael, who are you?"</p> + +<p>But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. "I am none other than your +servant, sir," he answered. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>[pg 41]</span> + "He who serves, reigns; for his glory is +in the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In life +you were a good master. You will need me until you reach your own +Master there." Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over the +blistering Plain.</p> + +<p>Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrow +and he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept struggling +forward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguish +did not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him, +but his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body +it felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was more +grateful than ever for it.</p> + +<p>"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes, from the Cross, master," said Michael, "for this is The Plain of +Sinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice."</p> + +<p>Then like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael had +understood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His face +became more radiant before he spoke.</p> + +<p>"Master," he said, "my service is almost over. It was my prayer +constantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but on +earth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of the +Dead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>[pg 42]</span> +make my pilgrimage with +you. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm +of Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You did +not even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm of +Forgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which +you builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day after you +did it, filled up the Chasm before you came to it. Here on The Plain +of Sinful Things we would naturally separate, for I had never wilfully +sinned against God. But you needed me, and He let me stay. Master, +your burden has fallen from you."</p> + +<p>It was true. Orville was standing erect, with his eyes looking +straight at The Flaming Cross, which did not blind him. His burden had +vanished, and his face had almost the radiance of Michael's.</p> + +<p>"The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It comes toward you. Your +pilgrimage is ending."</p> + +<p>Orville could see It coming, gently and slowly. The Plain was now all +behind him, and yet it seemed as if he had scarcely gone over more +than a few yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was not sweet +enough for the music that filled the air. Like the falling of many +waters in the distance came the promise of coolness to Orville's +parched throat and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt his +heart, full of Love, break in his bosom; but with it broke the bond of +Sin, and he knew that he was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>[pg 43]</span> +dead, indeed, to earth, as out from the +stainéd cover came his purified soul.</p> + +<p>The Cross was close to him now. With his new spiritual vision he saw +that in form it was One like himself, but One with eyes that were soft +and mild and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched and +nail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a wounded side and +out from it a flood pouring which cooled the parched sands, so that +from them the flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form and +beauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The Flaming Cross fluttered +countless wings, and childish voices made melody, soft and harmonious +beyond all compare. All else that Orville ever knew vanished before +the glance of the Beloved; faces and forms dearest and nearest, old +haunts and older affections, all were melted into this One Great Love +that is Eternal. The outstretched arms were wrapped around them. The +blood from the wounded side washed all their pains from them. On their +foreheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and Michael had come +home. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>[pg 44]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_VICAR-GENERAL" id="THE_VICAR-GENERAL"></a>THE VICAR-GENERAL</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">THE Vicar-General was dead. With his long, white hair smoothed back, +he lay upon a silk pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon his +breast. He was clad in priestly vestments; and he looked, as he lay in +his coffin before the great altar with the candles burning on it, as +if he were just ready to arise and begin a new <i>"Introibo"</i> in Heaven. +The bells of the church wherein the Vicar-General lay asleep had +called his people all the morning in a sad and solemn tolling. The +people had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They were gathered +about the bier of their pastor. Priests from far and near had chanted +the Office of the Dead; the Requiem Mass was over, and the venerable +chief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, stood in cope and mitre, to +give the last Absolution.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/044-lg.png" name="fig044" id="fig044"> +<img src="images/044-sm.png" alt=""The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the +last absolution."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the +last absolution."</p> +</div> + +<p>The Bishop had loved the Vicar-General—had loved him as a brother. +For was it not the Vicar-General who had bidden His Lordship welcome, +when he came from his distant parish to take up the cares of a +diocese. With all the timidity of a stranger, the Bishop had feared; +but the Vicar-General guided his steps safely and well. Now the +Bishop, gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>[pg 45]</span> +wept. In +the midst of the Absolution, his voice broke. Priests bit their lips, +as their eyes filled with hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in the +parochial school and their little charges, did not attempt to keep +back their sobs. For others than the Bishop loved the Vicar-General.</p> + +<p>There was one standing by the coffin, whom neither the Bishop, priests +nor people saw. It was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore his +priestly vestments. Was he not a priest forever? His arms were folded +and his face was troubled. He knew every one present; but none of them +knew that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the Bishop's face +and seemed to wonder at his tears. He was quite unmoved by the sorrow +around him, did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar-General +had cared much about the feelings of others toward him. His eyes +wandered over the great congregation and rested on the children, but +without tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike the +Vicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested on the priestly form +in the coffin, and the trouble of them increased.</p> + +<p>The Absolution was over and the coffin was closed when the +Vicar-General looked up again, and knew that Another Unseen besides +himself was present. The Other was looking over the coffin at the +Vicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that searched down deep and +with lashes that were very, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>[pg 46]</span> +very still. He wore a long robe of some +texture the Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered like +silk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted with tiny diamonds. +The hair of the Other was long, and fell, bright and beautiful, over +his shoulders. His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in a +gold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly in spite of his +beardless face. The Vicar-General noticed what seemed like wings +behind him; but they were not wings, only something which gave the +impression of them. The Vicar-General could not remove his eyes from +the Other. Gradually he knew that he was gazing at an Angel, and an +Angel who had intimate relation to himself.</p> + +<p>The body was borne out of the church. The Angel moved to follow, and +the Vicar-General knew that he also had to go. The day was perfect, +for it was in the full glory of the summer; but the Vicar-General +noticed little of either the day or the gathering. The Angel did not +speak, but his eyes said "come": and so the Vicar-General +followed—whither, he did not know.</p> + +<p>The Vicar-General was not sure that it was even a place to which the +Angel led him; but he felt with increasing trouble that he was to be +the center of some momentous event. There were people arriving, most +of whom the Vicar-General knew—men and women of his flock, to whom he +had ministered and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>[pg 47]</span> +at +the Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged themselves on one side. +The Silent Angel stood very close to the Vicar-General. As the people +came near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon him, as if +they were lifting him in the air. They shone very brightly, too, and +took on a new beauty. The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearing +them.</p> + +<p>The Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a word; yet the +Vicar-General understood at once, knew that he was to answer at a +stern trial, and that these were his witnesses—the souls of the +people to whom he ministered, to whom he had broken the Bread of Life. +How many there were! They gladdened the Vicar-General's heart. There +were his converts, the children he had baptized, his penitents, the +pure virgins whose vows he had consecrated to God, the youths whom his +example had won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar-General +counted them, and he could not think of a single one missing.</p> + +<p>On the other side, witnesses began to arrive and the Vicar-General's +look of trouble returned. He felt his priestly vestments becoming +heavy. Especially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was like +a heavy iron helmet crushed down over his shoulders. The cincture was +binding him very tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it. +The maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>[pg 48]</span> + The stole was +pulling at him, and the weight of the chasuble made him very faint.</p> + +<p>He knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. He had seen these few +before. They were his neglected spiritual children. He remembered each +and every case. One was a missed sick-call: his had been the fault. +Another was a man driven from the church by a harsh word spoken in +anger. The Vicar-General remembered the day when he referred to this +man in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew and leave. He did not +return. Another was a priest—his own assistant. The Vicar-General had +no patience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them his feelings had +turned to rancor against the man—and the assistant was lost. The +Vicar-General trembled; for these things he had passed by as either +justified by reason of the severity necessary to his office, or as +wiped out by his virtues—and he had many virtues.</p> + +<p>The Vicar-General's eyes sought those of the Silent Angel, and he lost +some of his fear, while the weight of his vestments became a little +lighter. But the Silent Angel's gaze caused the Vicar-General again to +look at the witnesses. Those against him were increasing. The faces of +the new-comers he did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protesting +that there must be some mistake, for the new-comers were red men, +brown men, yellow men and black men, besides white men whose faces +were altogether +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>[pg 49]</span> +strange. He was sure none of these had ever been in +his parish. The new-comers were dressed in the garbs of every nation +under the sun. They all alike looked very sternly at the +Vicar-General, so that he could not bear their glances. Still he could +not understand how he had ever offended against them, nor could he +surmise why they should be witnesses to his hurt.</p> + +<p>The Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar-General; but the +troubled soul of the priest could find no enlightenment in his eyes. +All the while witnesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filled +him with a great terror.</p> + +<p>At last he saw a face amongst the strangers which he thought familiar, +and he began to understand. It was the face of a priest he had known, +who had been in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-General's +authority. On earth this priest had been one of the quiet kind, +without ambition except to serve in a very humble way. He had always +been in a parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had in his +manner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected its humility and its +poverty. The Vicar-General remembered that the priest had once come to +him as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was not +complaining, nevertheless he really needed help and counsel. He said +that his scattered flock was being lost for the want of things which +could not be supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar-General + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>[pg 50]</span> +what was needed. The Vicar-General remembered that he had agreed with +him; but had informed him very gently that it was the policy of the +diocese to let each parish maintain and support itself. The +Vicar-General had felt justified in refusing his aid, especially +since, at that time, he was collecting for a new organ for his own +church, one with three banks of keys—the old one had but two. The +Vicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of worry at the time +was not groundless; but while then he had felt vaguely that he was +wrong in his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes sought +all through his own witnesses, but they found no likelihood of a +testimony in his favor based on the purchase of that grand organ. Then +it all came to the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel, +that he had received on earth all the reward that was due to him for +it.</p> + +<p>The presence of the men of all colors and of strange garbs was still a +mystery to the Vicar-General; but at last he saw among them a bent old +priest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. At once the +Vicar-General recognized him and his heart sank. Too well he +remembered the poor missionary who had begged for assistance: money, a +letter, a recommendation—anything; and had faced the inflexible +official for half an hour during his pleading. The Vicar-General had +felt at that time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>[pg 51]</span> +come +to him, that there was so much to be done at home, absolutely nothing +could be sent out. There was the Orphanage which the Bishop was +building and they were just beginning to gather funds for a new +Cathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the Vicar-General's ruling. +The diocese had flourished and had grown strong. The Vicar-General had +always been its pride. He was humbled now under the gaze of the Silent +Angel, whose eyes told him wherein he had been at fault. He knew that +the fault was not in the building of the great and beautiful things, +which of themselves were good because they were for God's glory; but +rather was it in this: that he had shut out of his heart, for their +sakes, the cry of affliction and the call of pleading voices from the +near and far begging but for the crumbs which meant to them Faith here +and Life hereafter.</p> + +<p>Now, O God! there were the red men, the brown men, the yellow men and +the black men; not to speak of these white men whose faces were so +strange; and they were going to say something—something against him. +He could guess—could well guess what it was they would say. The +Vicar-General knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had come +into Eternity. He doubted if it ever could be made right, for he knew +now the value of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was it +too late? His vestments were as heavy as lead. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>[pg 52]</span> +</p> + +<p>Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked for his Judge; but +he could not see Him. He only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had +a book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its title. There was +a chalice on the cover, as if it spoke of priests, and under it he +read:</p> + +<p class="center">THE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED.</p> + +<p>The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General saw that it had +but one page. Shining out from the page he read:</p> + +<p class="center">"THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER."</p> + +<p>And under it:</p> + +<p class="center">"GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS."</p> + +<p>Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the hope in the eyes of +the Silent Angel gave him hope, as he bowed his head before the +judgment. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>[pg 53]</span> + +<h2><a name="THE_RESURRECTION_OF_ALTA" id="THE_RESURRECTION_OF_ALTA"></a>THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">FATHER BROIDY rushed down the stone steps and ran toward the Bishop's +carriage which had just stopped at the curb. He flung open the door +before the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand extended +him, helped its owner out and with a beaming face led the Bishop to +the pretty and comfortable rectory.</p> + +<p>"Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop," he said as they entered the house, +"and sure the whole Deanery is here to back it up."</p> + +<p>The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs echoing the +greeting. The Bishop knew them all, and he was happy, for well was he +aware that every man meant what he said. No one really ever admired +the Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private reason of his +own for it that he never confided to anyone save his nearest crony. +They were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta—the +poorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless three years ago, +but now—well, there it is across the lot, that symphony in stone, +every line of its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>[pg 54]</span> +chaste gothic a "Te Deum" that even an agnostic +could understand and appreciate; every bit of carving the paragraph of +a sermon that passers-by, perforce, must hear. To-day it is to be +consecrated, the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy's Arch of +Triumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin.</p> + +<p>"I thought you had but sixteen families here," said the Bishop as he +watched the crowd stream into the church.</p> + +<p>"There were but eighteen, Bishop," the young priest answered, with a +happy smile that had considerable self-satisfaction in it. "There are +seventy-five now."</p> + +<p>"And how did it come about, my lad?" questioned the Bishop.</p> + +<p>"Mostly through my mission bringing back some of the 'ought-to-be's,' +but I suppose principally because my friend McDermott opened his +factory to Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was born one of +us he had somehow acquired a bitter hatred of the Church, and he never +employed Catholics until I brought him around."</p> + +<p>There was a shadow of a smile that had meaning to it on the Bishop's +face, as he patted the ardent young pastor on the arm, and said:</p> + +<p>"Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I suppose we must begin to +vest now. Is it not near ten o'clock?"</p> + +<p>Father Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>[pg 55]</span> +on his +face to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession started +toward the church.</p> + +<p>Shall I describe the beauty of it all?—the lights and flowers, the +swinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mystic +symbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession into +the sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in the +heart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. He +had watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chips +that had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful a +day to him, and never such a ceremony but one—three years ago in the +Seminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dear +me, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy, +that young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of the +congratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. It +was small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way back +to the rectory:</p> + +<p>"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surely +won his spurs to-day."</p> + +<p>But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face, +and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he +slapped the young pastor on the back and said: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>[pg 56]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you, +but wait and listen." Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I was +talking to the Bishop about you."</p> + +<p>The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say? +But perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely have +heard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone said +that Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's and +went to keep house for the priest at Alta.</p> + +<p>Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub up +the wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for months +never passed by unnoticed.</p> + +<p>The Dean was toastmaster.</p> + +<p>"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers," he began, when he had +enforced silence with the handle of his fork, "it is my pleasure and +pride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent to +one of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he found +you all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never a +secret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant. +Factories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for +a dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around you +to-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? That +is Father Broidy's work +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>[pg 57]</span> +and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are glad +of it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What have +we others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are not +jealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our young +friend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, though +completely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me +now call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always a +joy."</p> + +<p>When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stood +again with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instant +he did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in his +voice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which had +preceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like a +forerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, this +kindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when he spoke it was always +with a gentle dignity, and a depth of sympathy and feeling that +compelled attention.</p> + +<p>"It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers," he began, "to find so +many of you here to rejoice with our young friend and his devoted +people, and to thus encourage the growth of a priestly life which he +has so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success more than I. +No one more warmly than I, his Bishop, tenders congratulations. This +is truly a day +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>[pg 58]</span> +the Lord has made—this day in Alta. It is a day of +joy and gladness for priest and people. Will you pardon an old man if +he stems the tide of mirth for an instant? He could not hope to stem +it for long. On such an occasion as this it would burst the barriers, +leaving what he would show you once more submerged beneath rippling +waters and silver-tipped waves of laughter. It seems wrong even to +think of the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the hulks of +the wrecked. But the bottom always has its treasure as well as its +tragedy. There are both a tragedy and a treasure in the story I will +tell you to-day."</p> + +<p>"You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor of Alta? Yes! Then let +me tell you a story that your generous priestly souls will treasure as +it deserves."</p> + +<p>The table was strangely silent. Not one of the guests had ever before +known the depth of sympathy in the old Bishop till now. Every chord in +the nature of each man vibrated to the touch of his words.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/058-lg.png" name="fig058" id="fig058"> +<img src="images/058-sm.png" alt=""I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had +received."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had +received."</p> +</div> + +<p>"It was ten years ago," went on the Bishop—"ah, how years fly fast to +the old!—a friend of college days, a bishop in an Eastern State, +wrote me a long letter concerning a young convert he had just +ordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant and handsome, the +son of wealthy parents, who, however, now cast him off, giving him to +understand that he would receive nothing from them. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>[pg 59]</span> +young man was +filled with zeal, and he begged the bishop to give him to some +missionary diocese wherein he could work in obscurity for the greater +glory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a man that the bishop +desired to attach him to his own household and was loath to lose him, +but the priest begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop asked me +to take him for a few years and give him actual contact with the +hardships of life in a pioneer state. Soon, he thought, the young man +would be willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in other +words, wanted to test him. I sadly needed priests, so when he came +with the oil still wet on his hands, I gave him a place—the worst I +had—I gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what it was then. The +story of Alta is full of sorrow. I told it to him, but he thanked me +and went to his charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I did +not see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and with his annual +report in my hand I asked him how he lived on the pittance which he +had received. He said that it took very little when one was careful +and that he lived well enough—but his coat was threadbare and his +shoes were sadly patched. There was a brightness in his eyes too, and +a flush on his cheek that I did not quite like. I asked him of his +work and he told me that he was hopeful—told me of the little repairs +he had made, of a soul won back, but in the conversation I actually +stole the sad tale of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>[pg 60]</span> +poverty from him. Yet he made no complaint +and went back cheerfully to Alta.</p> + +<p>"The next month he came again, but this time he told me of the dire +need of aid, not for himself, but for his church. The people, he said, +were poor pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church they +were losing their grip on religion. The young people were falling away +very fast. All around were well ordered and beautiful sectarian +churches. He could see the effect, not visible to less interested eyes +but very plain to his. He feared that another generation would be lost +and he asked me if there was any possibility of securing temporary aid +such as the sects had for their building work. I had to tell him that +nothing could be done. I told him of the poverty of my own Diocese, +and that, while his was a poor place, there were others approaching +it. In my heart I knew there was something sadly lacking in our +national work for the Church, but I could do nothing myself. He wrote +to his own State for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except for +the few stipends I could give him and which he devoted to his work, it +was impossible to do anything. He was brave and never faltered though +the eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat was worn +through. A few days later I received a letter from his bishop asking +how he did and saying that he would appoint him to an excellent parish +if he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>[pg 61]</span> + Alta with a +little note of my own, congratulating him on his changed condition. He +returned the letter to me with a few lines saying: 'I can not go. If I +desert my people here it would be a sin. There are plenty at home for +the rich places but you have no one to send here. Please ask the +bishop to let me stay. I think it is God's will.' The day I received +that letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral say: 'How seedy +that young Belmond looks! for an Eastern man he is positively sloppy +in his dress. He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of his +calling. Surely such a man is not calculated to impress himself upon +our separated brethren.' And another chimed in: 'I wonder why he left +his own diocese?'"</p> + +<p>"I heard no more for two years except for the annual report, and now +and then a request for a dispensation. I did hear that he was teaching +the few children of the parish himself, and every little while I saw +an article in some of the papers, unsigned but suspiciously like his +style, and I suspected that he was earning a little money with his +pen.</p> + +<p>"One winter night, returning alone from a visitation of Vinta, the +fast train was stalled by a blizzard at the Alta station. I went out +on the platform to secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcely +closed the door when a boy rushed up to me and asked if I were a +Catholic priest. When I nodded he said: 'We have been trying to get a +priest all day, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>[pg 62]</span> +but the wires are down in the storm. Father Belmond +is sick and the doctor says he will die. He told me to look through +every train that came in. He was sure I would find some one.' Reaching +at once for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the Pastor. The +home was the lean-to vestry of the old log church. In one corner +Father Belmond lived; another was given over to the vestments and +linens. Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the priest was +tossing, moaning and delirious. Only the boy had attended him in his +sickness until the noon of that day when two good old women heard of +his condition and came. One of them was at his bedside when I entered. +When she saw my collar she lifted her hands in that peculiarly +Hibernian gesture that means so much, and said:</p> + +<p>"'Sure, God sent you here this night. He has been waiting since noon +to die.'</p> + +<p>"The sick priest opened his eyes that now had the brightness of death +in them and appeared to look through me. He seemed to be very far +away. But slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back—back from +the shadows; then at last he spoke:</p> + +<p>"'You, Bishop? Thank God!'"</p> + +<p>"He made his simple confession. I anointed him and brought him +Viaticum from the tabernacle in the church. Then the eyes went wild +again, and I saw when they opened and looked at me that he had already +turned around, and was again walking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>[pg 63]</span> +through the shadows of the Great +Valley that ends the Long Road.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/062-lg.png" name="fig062" id="fig062"> +<img src="images/062-sm.png" alt=""Then I learned—old priest and bishop as I was—I +learned my lesson."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"Then I learned—old priest and bishop as I was—I +learned my lesson."</p> +</div> + +<p>"Through the night we three, the old woman, the boy and myself, +watched him and listened to his wanderings. Then I learned—old priest +and bishop as I was—I learned my lesson. The lips that never spoke a +complaint were moved, but not by his will, to go over the story of two +terrible years. It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. He +wanted to do so much, but the black discouragement of everything +slowly killed his hopes. He saw the Faith going from his people. He +saw that they were ceasing to care. The town was then, as it is +to-day, McDermott's town, but McDermott had fallen away when his +riches came, and some terrible event, a quarrel with a former priest +who had attended Alta from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter. +He practically drove the pastor from his door. He closed his factory +to the priest's people and one by one they left. Only eighteen +families stayed. The dying priest counted them over in his dreams, and +sobbed as he told of the others who had gone. Then the bigotry that +McDermott's faith had kept concealed broke out under the encouragement +of McDermott's infidelity. The boys of the town flung insults at the +priest as he passed. The people gave little, and that grudgingly. I +could almost feel his pain as he told in his delirium how, day after +day, he had dragged his frail body to church and on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>[pg 64]</span> +round of +duty. But every now and then, as if the words came naturally to bear +him up, he would say:</p> + +<p>"'It's for God's sake. I am nothing. It will all come in His own good +time.'</p> + +<p>"Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his work. He went over his +visit to me. How he had hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed to +the ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all meant to that +sensitive, saintly nature, I would have sold my ring and cross to give +him what he needed. But my words seemed to have broken him and he came +home to die. The night of his return he spent before the altar in his +log church, and, Saints of Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard his +poor, dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed my head on +the coverlet and cried as only a child can cry—and I was only a child +at that minute in spite of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offered +a supreme sacrifice—his life. I gleaned from his prayers that his +parents had done him the one favor of keeping up his insurance and +that he had made it over to his church. So he wanted to die at his +post and piteously begged God to take him. For his death he knew would +give Alta a church. He seemed penetrated with the idea that alive he +was useless, but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. When I +heard that same expression used so often to-day I lived over again the +whole story of that night in the little vestry. All this time he had +been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>[pg 65]</span> +picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, during the pauses, +to be holding the paten as if he were gathering up the minute +particles from the corporal. At last his hand found mine. He clung to +it, and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason in them. He +smiled, and murmured, 'It is all right, now, Bishop.' I heard a sob +back of me where the boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He was +trying to speak again, and I caught the words, 'God's sake—I am +nothing—His good time.' Then he was still, just as the morning sun +broke through the windows.</p> + +<p>"That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the resurrection of Alta. The +old woman told me how it happened. He was twenty-five miles away +attending one of his missions when the blizzard was at its height. +McDermott fell sick and a telegram was sent for the priest—the last +message before the wires came down. Father Belmond started to drive +through the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in reaching McDermott's +bedside and gave him the last Sacraments. He did not break down +himself until he returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours he +tossed in fever before they found him.</p> + +<p>"McDermott grew better. He sent for me when he heard I was in town. +The first question he asked was: 'Is he dead?' I told McDermott the +story just as I am telling you. 'God forgive me,' said the sick man, +'that priest died for me. When he came here I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>[pg 66]</span> +ordered him out of my +office, yet when they told him I was sick he drove through the storm +for my sake. He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself was +the noblest soul that Alta ever had.'</p> + +<p>"I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere bishop was talking to +McDermott, and I, His minister, was silent in His presence. 'Bishop,' +said McDermott, after long thought, 'I never really believed until +now; I'm sorry that it took a man's life to bring back the Faith of my +fathers. Send us a priest to Alta—one who can do things: one after +the stamp of the saint in the vestry. I'll be his friend and together +we will carry on the work he began. I'll see him through if God spares +me.'</p> + +<p>"Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did.</p> + +<p>"Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not re-echoed the praises +that have been showered upon you as much as perhaps I might have done, +because I reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of them. I +believed when I sent you here that you were of his stamp. You have +done your duty and you have done it well. I am not ungrateful and I +shall not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I firmly +believe that you, under like circumstances, would also have willingly +given your life for the resurrection of Alta." +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>[pg 67]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_MAN_WITH_A_DEAD_SOUL" id="THE_MAN_WITH_A_DEAD_SOUL"></a>THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">YEARS ago there lived a man whose soul had died; and died as only a +soul may die, by the man's own deed. His body lived still for +debauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, but his soul was +stifled in a flood of sin. So the man lived his life with a dead soul.</p> + +<p>When the soul died the man's dreams changed. The fairy children of his +youth came no more to play with him and his visions were of lands bare +and desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; and sandy, dry +and arid plains instead of bright grass and flowers. But out of the +rocks shone fiery veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that dried +the plain reflected countless smaller suns of untouched diamonds. +Hither in dreams came often the man with the dead soul.</p> + +<p>The years passed and the man realized with his mortal eyes the full of +his dreams and touched mortal foot to the desert that now was all his +own. Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body cried "enough." +Then only he left, when his strength could dig no more. So he began to +live +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>[pg 68]</span> +more evilly because of his new power of wealth; and his soul was +farther than ever from resurrection.</p> + +<p>Now it happened that the man with the dead soul soon found that he had +become a leper because of his sins, and so with all his gains was +driven from among men. He went back to the desert and watched the gold +veins in the rocks and the shining of the diamonds, all the time +hoping for more strength to dig. But while waiting, his musings turned +to hateful thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all good. So +he said: "I have been driven from among men because they love virtue, +henceforth I will hate it; because they loved God, henceforth I will +love only evil; because they use their belongings to work mercy, +henceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. I may not go to men, so +I will go to those who do men harm."</p> + +<p>So the man with the dead soul went to live among the beasts. He dwelt +for a long time in the forests and the most savage of the brutes were +his friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his cave. "How +livest thou here?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"From the offerings of the raven who brings me bread and the wild bees +who give it sweetness and the great beasts who clothe me," answered +the hermit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts because +they did good and were merciful.</p> + +<p>Out of the forest the North Wind met the man and tossed him upon its +wings and buffeted him and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>[pg 69]</span> +chilled him to the marrow. In vain he +asked for mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half frozen and sore +with blows the man gasped—</p> + +<p>"'Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou givest nothing but evil." +So he went to dwell in the cave of the North Wind and the chill of the +pitiless cold was good to him on account of his dead soul.</p> + +<p>One day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his own desert, and the +North Wind went to meet them and a mighty battle took place in the +air; but the North Wind was the victor. White on the ground where the +chill had flung them lay the clouds in snow crystals; and the man +laughed his joy at the sight of the ruin—for he knew that the +rain-clouds would have greened his desert and made it beautiful. But +he heard the men who cultivated the land on which the snow had fallen +bless the North Wind that it had given their crops protection and +promised plenty to the fields of wheat. Then the man with the dead +soul cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the ocean.</p> + +<p>The waters bade him stay and daily he saw their work of evil. Down in +the depths dead men's bones whitened beside the wealth of treasure the +ocean had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years exulting in +destruction before he came to the surface to watch the storms and +laugh at the big waves eating the great ships. But there was only a +gentle breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>[pg 70]</span> +laden with +treasure and wealth passing from nation to nation. He saw the dolphins +play over the bosom of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride the +waves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns where all day long the +sun kept working, drawing moisture to the sky from the waters to +spread it, even over the man's barren desert, to make it bloom.</p> + +<p>Cursing again, the man with the dead soul left the waters and buried +himself beneath the earth, to hide in dark caves where neither light +nor sound could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave made it all +too bright. By its lantern he saw the hidden mysterious forces +working. Through tiny paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near the +surface that baby seeds might germinate, live and flourish for man's +benefit. He saw great forests draw their strength from the very Earth +into which he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its kindly +arms and so to change into carbon and remain stored away for man's +future comfort. Then the man with the dead soul could live in earth no +longer, and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to the +waters.</p> + +<p>"I will return to my desert," he said, "for there is more of evil in +the gold and diamonds than anywhere else."</p> + +<p>So he went back where the gold still shone from the veins in the +cliffs and the diamonds twinkled in the pitiless sun rays. But a +throne had been raised +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>[pg 71]</span> +on a hillock and a king sat thereon with a +crown on his head and a trident in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Who art thou who invadest my desert?" asked the man.</p> + +<p>"Thy master," answered the king.</p> + +<p>"And who is my master?" asked the man.</p> + +<p>"The spirit of evil."</p> + +<p>"Then would I dwell with thee," said the man.</p> + +<p>"Thou hast served me well and thou art welcome," said the king. +"Behold!"</p> + +<p>He stretched forth the trident and demons peopled the desert.</p> + +<p>"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell with them, and without +torture, unless thy evil deeds be turned to good to torture me. Know +that thou hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil have +brought thee my favor. If thou hast been successful in reaping the +evil thou has sown, thou shalt be my friend. But know that for every +good thing that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips of +scorpions."</p> + +<p>So the man with the dead soul walked through rows of demons with whips +in their hands; but no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown his +evil well and the king did not frown on him.</p> + +<p>Then one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon his shoulders. +Pain-racked he looked at the king and saw that his face was twisted +with agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>[pg 72]</span> +been turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fall +mercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, cried +out:</p> + +<p>"Tear aside the veil. Let him see."</p> + +<p>In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soul +saw all the Earth before him—and understood. A generation had passed +since he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. The +finger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from it +everywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poor +could worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked, +dazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever the +Finger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished, +the naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Before +him was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment and +multiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the +tortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungered +for his back.</p> + +<p>Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made him +open them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purified +and sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the "Miserere," +and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose.</p> + +<p>He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit +of penance with the cord of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>[pg 73]</span> +purity girt about him. His eyes looked +once into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes +of the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and +evil—his own and his only son.</p> + +<p>Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and +behold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out +of the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked +at them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the +"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to +pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>[pg 74]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_AUTOBIOGRAPHY_OF_A_DOLLAR" id="THE_AUTOBIOGRAPHY_OF_A_DOLLAR"></a>THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the +capital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood, +though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists +whose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized +the glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of +paper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and I +really began to live only when some one representing the Great Nation +stamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throb +of being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me.</p> + +<p>I remember that at first I was confined in a prison, bound with others +by an elastic band which I longed to break that I might escape to the +welcoming hands of men who looked longingly at me through the bars. +But soon one secured me and I went out into a great, wide and very +beautiful world.</p> + +<p>Of the first months of my life I can remember but very little, only +that I was feverishly happy in seeing, and particularly in doing. I +was petted and admired and sought after. I went everywhere and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>[pg 75]</span> +did +everything. So great was my popularity that some even bartered their +peace of mind to obtain me, and others, forced to see me go, shed +tears at the parting. Some, unable to have me go to them otherwise, +actually stole me. But all the time I cared nothing, for I was living +and doing—making men smile and laugh when I was with them and weep +when I went away. It was all the same to me whether they laughed or +cried. I only loved the power that was in me to make them do it and I +believed that the power was without limit.</p> + +<p>I was not yet a year old when I began to lose my beauty. I noticed it +first when I fell into the hands of a man with long hair and pointed +beard, who frowned at me and said: "You poor, faded, dirty thing, to +think that I made you!" But I did not care. He had not made me. It was +the Great Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make even him +long for me. So I was happy.</p> + +<p>I was one year and a half old when I formed my first great partnership +with others of my kind, and it came about like this: I had been in the +possession of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in a most +unpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard a sharp voice ask for +me—nay, demand me, and couple the demand with a threat that my +guardian should lose her home were the demand refused. I was given +over, I hoped, to better quarters, but in this I was sadly +disappointed, for my new owner +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>[pg 76]</span> +confined me in a strong but +ill-favored box where thousands like myself were growing mouldy and +wrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes we were released at +night to be carefully counted by candle-light, but that was all. Thus +we who were imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even then we +were not strong enough to free ourselves. One night the box was opened +with a snap and I saw the thin, pale face of my master looking down at +us. He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions and placed us +outside the box.</p> + +<p>"There's the money," he said, "as I told you. It's all yours. Are you +satisfied now?" I looked across the table at a young girl with a +white, set face that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer.</p> + +<p>"If you want it why don't you take it?" he snarled at her. "I can tell +you again that there is nothing else for you."</p> + +<p>The girl had something in her hand that I saw. I see more than most +men. The thing she had made a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. He +fell across the table and something red and warm went all over me. I +began to be unhappy, for I thought I saw that there was something in +the world that could not be bought. For him I cared nothing.</p> + +<p>It was strange that after my transfers I was at last used to pay the +judge who tried the girl. I was in the judge's pocket when he +sentenced her to death. He said: "May the Lord have mercy on your +soul." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>[pg 77]</span> + But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most men, +that he didn't believe in the Lord or in souls. He left the court to +spend me at a ——, but I think that I will not mention that shameful +change. There was nothing strange about my falling into the hangman as +part of his pay. I had been in worse hands in the interim.</p> + +<p>I saw her die. Not a word did she say about the man she killed, though +it might have saved her to tell of the mock marriage and the other +things I knew she could reveal. She thought it better to die, I +suppose, than be shamed. So she died—unbought. It made me still more +unhappy to think of it at all. The dark stain never left me, but I +cared nothing for that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted me, +was starving for what I could buy, but spurned me and died rather than +take me. There was something that had more power than I possessed.</p> + +<p>I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I had +yet made—my partnership with millions of others. I traveled long +distances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and so +produced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers, +steamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order to +enhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, +checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when I +returned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners were +nearly all with us one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>[pg 78]</span> +day when the master came in with a man and +pointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massive +head, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but he +never changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threw +us down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was more +unhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look that +he wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There was +another thing I could not buy.</p> + +<p>But a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of that +has never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honor +or his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom he +had stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. He +refused and the priest turned from him without saying the words of +absolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, and +croaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back into +him, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again till +he died. The priest came back and looked at him.</p> + +<p>"Poor fool!" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: "YOU +sent him to Hell."</p> + +<p>Ah! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not glad +enough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he was +my master long before I mastered him. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>[pg 79]</span> +</p> + +<p>His dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed. +I was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirty +floor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I was +torn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent me +back to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists work +again on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist +could give me new life.</p> + +<p>Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew he +was good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me. +"God has blessed me," he said, "with riches and knowledge and +strength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the rest +shall be spent in His service." Then we were sent out, thousands of +us, returning again and again, splitting into great and small parties, +but all coming and going hither and thither on errands of mercy.</p> + +<p>Now I felt my love of doing return. Never did I now see a tear that I +did not dry. Never did I hear a sigh that I did not change to a laugh; +never a wound that I did not heal; never a pain that I did not soothe; +nor a care I did not lighten. Where the sick were found, I visited +them; where the poor were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains and +in the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the Chalice of Salvation. +To the dying I sped the Minister of Pardon. Into the darkness and the +shadow +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>[pg 80]</span> +of death I sent the Light of love and hope and truth, till, +rich in the deeds of mercy I did in my master's name, I felt the call +to another deathbed—his own. I saw my companions flying from the +bounds of the great earth to answer the call. They knew he needed them +now with the rich interest of good deeds they had won for him. Fast +they came and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. The enemy +who hated him pointed to them in derision. "Gold buys hell, not +heaven," he laughed, but we stood around the bed and the enemy could +not pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his command, began +to pray and the prayer was like sweetest music echoing against the +very vault of heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones of +harps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and louder till all seemed +changed to a thousand organs, with every stop attuned to the praying. +They were the voices of the children from parts and regions where we +had lifted the Cross. One by one they joined the mighty music till on +the wings of the melody the master was borne aloft, higher and higher +as new voices coming added of their strength. I watched till he was +far above and still rising to heights beyond the ken of dreams.</p> + +<p>An Angel touched me.</p> + +<p>"Be thou clean," he said, "and go, I charge thee, to thy work. Thy +master is not dead, but only begins his joy. While time is, thou shalt +work for him and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>[pg 81]</span> +thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thou +shalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, the children may +gather and the song find new strength and new volume to lift him +nearer and nearer the Throne."</p> + +<p>So I am happy that I have learned my real power; that I can do what +alone is worth doing—for His sake. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>[pg 82]</span> +<h2><a name="LE_BRAILLARD_DE_LA_MAGDELEINE1" id="LE_BRAILLARD_DE_LA_MAGDELEINE1"></a>LE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">THIS is the story that the old sailor from Tadousac told me when the +waves were leaping, snapping, and frothing at us from the St. +Lawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the anger of the waters +rose the wail of the Braillard de la Magdeleine.</p> + +<p>"You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. I think of my own baby +when I hear him, always the same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby!</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkens +everything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little mother +lived—<i>pauvre mêre</i>. She was only a child, innocent and good and +happy, when he came—the great lord, the <i>Grand Seigneur</i>, from +France—came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac.</p> + +<p>"She loved him, loved him and forgot—forgot her father and +mother—forgot the good name they gave her—forgot the innocence that +made her beautiful—forgot the pure Mother and the good God, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>[pg 83]</span> +for him +and his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Curé had not +blessed them in the church.</p> + +<p>"Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries out there in the +storm. The <i>Grand Seigneur</i> killed the little baby, killed it to save +her from disgrace, killed it without baptism, and it cries and wails +out there, <i>pauvre enfant</i>.</p> + +<p>"The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. She has been here for +more than two hundred years listening to her baby cry. Poor mother. +The baby calls her and she wanders through the storm to find him. But +she never sees, only hears him cry for her—and God. Till the great +Day of Judgment will the baby cry, and she—<i>pauvre mêre</i>—will pay +the price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart and hungry +mother arms, that will not be filled. You hear the soft wind from the +shore battle with the great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she, +<i>pauvre mêre</i>—perhaps.</p> + +<p>"The <i>Grand Seigneur</i>? He never comes, for he died unrepentant and +unpardoned. The lost do not return to Earth and Hope. He never comes. +Only the mother comes—the mother who weeps and seeks, and hears the +baby cry." +</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a sound +like wailing whenever there is a great storm. The people call it Le +Braillard de la Magdeleine and countless tales are told concerning +it.</p></div> +</div> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>[pg 84]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_LEGEND_OF_DESCHAMPS" id="THE_LEGEND_OF_DESCHAMPS"></a>THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">FROM Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint John the rock-bound +Saguenay rolls through a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty, +and alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore tales. Ghosts of the +past people its shores, phantom canoes float down the river of +mystery; and disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the dreamer's +call; traders, trappers, soldiers, women strong in love and valor, +heroes in the long ago, and saintly missionaries offering up mortal +life that savages may know the Christian's God.</p> + +<p>Beauty, mysticism and music—music in all things, from the silver flow +of the river to the soft notes of the native's tongue, and dominating +all, simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted patriotism.</p> + +<p>Such was French Canada, the adopted country of Deschamps the trapper, +a native of old France, who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec was +yet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or hardship, +gradually grew to be a <i>grand monsieur</i> in the estimation of the +people about him. He loved his country well and, when war came, sent +forth three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. Many were the +tears the patriot shed, because age +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>[pg 85]</span> +forbade the privilege of +shouldering musket and marching himself.</p> + +<p>Weary months dragged by before tidings came. Quebec had fallen. The +gallant Montcalm had passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero's +rest, and two of the trapper's sons lay dead on the Plains of Abraham. +They had died bravely, as Deschamps hoped they would, with their faces +to the foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old father at +Tadousac.</p> + +<p>And Pascal, the best beloved?</p> + +<p>Pascal was—a traitor!</p> + +<p>The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter and +gallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hope +lightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth nor +heaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on +his woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despair +in the words: "France! Pascal! Traitor!"</p> + +<p>Years passed and the trapper lived on, a senile wreck, ever brooding +on defeat, then breaking into fierce invective. Misery had isolated +him from his kind; the <i>grand monsieur</i> was the recluse of Tadousac. +One day he disappeared from his lonely cabin and no one knew whither +he had gone.</p> + +<p>Treason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son. Wealth and +honors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noble +family, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>[pg 86]</span> +who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous deed, +kindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang for +the birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion of +Pascal Deschamps.</p> + +<p>"Summon our friends," said the happy father. "A son to the house of +Deschamps! Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir of +wealth, power and position."</p> + +<p>So heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, but +bore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac.</p> + +<p>"The curse is lifted!" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal's +treason. "A child at last! The good God has forgiven him."</p> + +<p>From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised +his treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with +them came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly +clad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever: +"France! Pascal! Traitor!"</p> + +<p>Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician +beauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper's +descendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his +nurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor.</p> + +<p>"A sturdy fellow, my friends," said his laughing sponsor. "An English +Deschamps." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>[pg 87]</span> +</p> + +<p>"An English Deschamps!" cried the English guests, pleased with the +conceit. "Long may his line endure."</p> + +<p>"A traitor Deschamps!" said a voice instinct with wrath. "Unhappy man, +your taint is in him!"</p> + +<p>The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the +unbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the +dignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen +lips to speak the word: "Father."</p> + +<p>"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the +burden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I have +guarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would +have transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of +Deschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery has +destroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose +names are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country. +Ah, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps you +say! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, I +shall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity. +You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone."</p> + +<p>And snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passed +from the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers +were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>[pg 88]</span> +roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper had +driven holes through the sides of every one but his own.</p> + +<p>With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, through +the rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a +harbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed, +climbed to the summit of the rock, and laying down the boy, kindled a +fire of driftwood. "I may see his face," he muttered. "The last of my +line! The English cross shows! The strain shows! I must wash it out! +Hush, my little one, thy grandfather guards thee; soon shalt thou +sleep in my arms—arms that cradled thy father, and shall hold thee +forever. I, who was ever gentle, who spared the birds and beasts, and +sorrowed with the trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby—will +save thee from thy father. Here where the wind speaks of freedom; here +where the river even in its anger, as to-night, whispers peace; here +where Deschamps worked and hoped; here where Deschamps sorrowed and +mourned; here, little one, shall we rest together. Child, for you and +me life means disgrace; the better part is death and freedom."</p> + +<p>A leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, fluttering white like +angels' wings, dipped to the surface and disappeared. The race of +Deschamps was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its pall, the +storm its requiem. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>[pg 89]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_THOUSAND_DOLLAR_NOTE" id="THE_THOUSAND_DOLLAR_NOTE"></a>THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">THE three men who sat together around the little library table of the +Rectory felt the unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead silence. +The big burly one, with his feet planted straight on the carpet, +passed his tongue over his lips and nervously folded and opened the +paper in his hands. The tall young chap with creased trousers kept +crossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither of them looked at the young +priest, who ten minutes before had welcomed them with a merry laugh +and had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of his little +bookish den, as cordially as if they were the best friends he had in +the world. Now the young priest looked old and the half-minute had +done it. He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor and +architect arrived; but he was a care-filled man now, as he sat and +nervously passed a handkerchief over his forehead, to find it wet, +though the room was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting an +actual physical barrier when he spoke to the big man.</p> + +<p>"I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray" (it had been "John" ten minutes +before), "I do not quite see," +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>[pg 90]</span> + he repeated anxiously, "how I can owe +you so much. You know our contract was plain, and the bid that I +accepted from you was six thousand eight hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur," answered McMurray with shifting +embarrassment, "but you know these other things were extras, sur."</p> + +<p>"But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMurray," urged the priest.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations was +sandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specifications +called fur. It cost in labor, sur,"—McMurray did not seem to be +enjoying his explanation—"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then you +know, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes—to go +ahead, sur."</p> + +<p>"But you did not tell me it would cost more," urged the priest.</p> + +<p>"No, sur; no, sur; I didn't, sur; but a child would know that. Now +look here at the plans."</p> + +<p>"Just a minute, Mr. McMurray," broke in the architect, suavely. "Let +me explain. You see, Father, I was your representative both as +architect and superintendent of the building. I know that McMurray's +bill of extras is right. I passed on them and everything he did was +necessary. There are extras, you know, on every building." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>[pg 91]</span> +</p> + +<p>"But," said the priest, "I told you I had only eight thousand dollars, +and that the furnishings would take all over the amount called for by +the contract. You can not expect to get blood out of a stone. Here now +you say I must pay a thousand dollars more; but where can I get the +money?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Father," said the architect, "I don't think you will have to +worry much about that. You priests always manage somehow, and you got +off cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand dollars, if it's +worth a cent; and McMurray did you a clean, nice job. Now one thousand +dollars won't hurt you; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will get +the money in a year or so."</p> + +<p>"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can do +anything else," answered the priest. "This thing has sort of stunned +me. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had never +started that building at all."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sur; yes, sur," said McMurray quickly. "You can have a month, +sur. I am not a hard man, sur; but I've got to pay off me workers, you +know. But take the month, sur, take it—take it."</p> + +<p>McMurray looked longingly at the door.</p> + +<p>All three had arisen; but the priest's step had lost its spring as he +escorted his visitors out.</p> + +<p>Both of them were silent for the distance of a block away from the +Rectory, and then McMurray said: +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>[pg 92]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like ——."</p> + +<p>"I do too," broke in the architect. "I know what you were going to +say. He took it pretty hard."</p> + +<p>Not another word was spoken by either of them until the hotel was +reached, and they had drowned the recollection of the young face, with +the look of age upon it, in four drinks at the bar.</p> + +<p>When the priest, with a slight look of relief, closed the door upon +his visitors and bolted it after them, he had perhaps seen a little +humor in the situation; but the bolting of the door was the only sign +of it. His face was still grave when he stood, silent and stunned, +staring at the bill on the table.</p> + +<p>"The good Lord help me," he prayed. "One thousand dollars and the +Bishop coming in two weeks! What can I say to him? What can I do?"</p> + +<p>He pulled out a well thumbed letter from his pocket and read it to +himself, though he knew every word by heart.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"<span class="sc">Dear Father Ryan</span>,—I am pleased at your success, especially + that you built the church, as I told you to, without debt. + The congregation is too poor for any such burden. I will be + there for the dedication on the 26th.</p> + +<p> "And by the way. You may get ready for that change I spoke + of. I am as good as my word, and will not delay about + promoting you. The parish of Lansville is vacant. In a month + you may consider yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I + will look +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>[pg 93]</span> +around to select one of the young men to take + your place and begin the work of building a house. God bless + you.</p> + +<p class="letterClose1">"Sincerely yours in Christ,</p> + +<p class="letterClose2"><span class="sc">Thomas</span>, <i>Bishop of Tolma</i>.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>"All these years," whispered the young priest, "all these years, I +have waited for that place. I meant to have a home and mother with me, +and at least enough to live on after my ten years of sacrifice; but +one thousand dollars spoils it all. How can I raise it? I can not do +it before the 26th and the Bishop will ask for my report. How can I +tell him after that letter?"</p> + +<p>He dropped the letter over the contractor's bill and sat down, with +discouragement written on every line of his face. He was trying to +think out the hardest problem of his life.</p> + +<p>The town wherein Father Ryan had built his church had been for years +on the down-grade, so far as religion was concerned. There were in it +forty indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. They had just +enough religion left in them to desire a little more, and they had a +certain pride left, too, in their Faith.</p> + +<p>Father Ryan builded on that pride. It was a long and arduous work he +had faced. But after ten years he succeeded in erecting the little +church. His warnings to the architect had gone without heed; and he + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>[pg 94]</span> +found himself plunged into what was for him an enormous debt, just at +the time when promotion was assured.</p> + +<p>All night long his problem was before him, and in the morning it was +prompt to rise up and confront him.</p> + +<p>After breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered it himself, to find +two visitors on the steps. One was a very venerable looking old +priest, who had a kindly way about him and who laid his grip very +tenderly on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. His +companion looked vastly different as he flung a little satchel into +the corner, and with a voice as big and hearty as his body informed +his host that both had come to stay over Sunday.</p> + +<p>"Barry and I have been off for two weeks and we got tired of it," said +Father Fanning, the big man. "First vacation in ten years for both of +us, but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over his school, +and I got worrying over Barry, so there you are."</p> + +<p>"But why didn't both of you go home?" asked Father Ryan.</p> + +<p>"Home! confound it, that's the trouble. I would give anything to go on +the other ten miles and get off the train at my little burg, and so +would Barry, for that matter; but we were both warned to stay away +until Wednesday—reception and all that sort of thing. So now we are +going to stay here." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>[pg 95]</span> +</p> + +<p>"That's all right," said Father Ryan. "I am glad to have you, but this +is Saturday and to-morrow is Sunday, and—"</p> + +<p>"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It is +no use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He +won't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to work +on his vacation, would you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, if you won't, you won't," replied Father Ryan, "but you will +say the late Mass, anyhow? You'll have to do something for your +board."</p> + +<p>"All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass in private, and you +say the first, yourself. Then you can preach as short and as well as +you can, which is not saying much for you."</p> + +<p>"Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sunday," interrupted +Father Ryan, "I won't lack for a subject."</p> + +<p>Father Ryan had a great weakness for the Seminary, which was entitled +to an annual collection in the entire Diocese. He had studied there +for six years and, since his ordination, not one of his old professors +had been changed. Then he knew his obligations to the Seminary; he was +one of those who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning was +obliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to change his mind +regarding his friend's ability to preach well. Father Ryan's discourse +was an appeal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>[pg 96]</span> +</p> + +<p>He closed it very effectively: "I owe the Seminary, my dear friends," +he said, "about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I +may ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that is +upon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owe +the Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfully +carrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is for +that Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping to +train priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On the +Seminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, the +future of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in a +selfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving +your little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking of +your children and your children's children, and the future of +religion, not only in this community but all over our State, and even +in the Nation, you will be generous—even lavish, in your gifts. This +is a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to build +our church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but I +would rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitled +by the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the average +amount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took a +cent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you put +into this collection shall be sent +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>[pg 97]</span> +to the Bishop for the Seminary; to +help him educate worthy priests for our Diocese."</p> + +<p>After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher.</p> + +<p>"I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan," he said, "that I never looked at +things in such a light before. That was a great appeal you made. My +collection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home to +take it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermon +that I can remember."</p> + +<p>Father Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since his +two friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now that +the sermon was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was weighing +upon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some of +the people.</p> + +<p>A stranger brushed past him—a big, bluff, hearty looking man, all +bone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud. There was a +two-horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger started for +it; but turned back on seeing the priest.</p> + +<p>"I am a stranger here, Father," he said. "I have just come down from +the mountains, where I have been prospecting. I have to drive over to +Caanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no trains here on +Sunday. I hadn't been to Mass for three months, for we have no place +to go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me to +drop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>[pg 98]</span> + <i>was</i> a good +sermon. That was a great appeal you made."</p> + +<p>Father Ryan could only murmur, "Thank you. You are not staying very +long with us?"</p> + +<p>"No, I can't stay, Father. I have to get to New York and report on +what I found. I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, and +have driven twenty miles this morning. I don't belong around here at +all. I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and you +are the nearest priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection."</p> + +<p>The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan's hand. By this time they +both had reached the livery rig. A quick "Good-bye" from the visitor, +and a "God bless you" from Father Ryan, ended the conversation.</p> + +<p>The priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house. +When he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast +at the table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which he +found difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic comments +of his friend on Father Ryan's sermon.</p> + +<p>"We were talking about you, Ryan," he said. "And there is no need of +telling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing I +would like to ask. What's wrong with you since we came?"</p> + +<p>"Why, nothing," said Father Ryan. "Haven't I treated you better than +you deserve?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>[pg 99]</span> +</p> + +<p>"That is all right, that is all right," interrupted his big neighbor, +"but there <i>is</i> something wrong. You were worried at first. Then you +dropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you came +out of the sanctuary. You were at it when we came in and you are at it +now. Come, Ryan, let us know what it is. If it is money, well—"</p> + +<p>Father Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: "Surely, it is +not the new church, is it?"</p> + +<p>The young pastor sat down in a chair at the table and looked at his +friends, before he spoke. "Well, I never could keep a secret," he +said. "Therefore, I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor of +anybody, and must always be seeking a counselor for myself."</p> + +<p>"I always hate a man who can keep a secret," said Father Fanning. "I +always believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you +have to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobody +ever is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep a +secret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it."</p> + +<p>"Well, it is about the church," said Father Ryan.</p> + +<p>And he told his story.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all the strange characters I ever met," said Father Fanning, +"you certainly are the worst, Ryan. Here you are in a box about that +thousand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>[pg 100]</span> +dollars and yet this morning you gave away your own share of +the collection, besides booming the Seminary. Why man, the Seminary +ought not ask anything from you, in your present condition. But there +is no use trying to pound sense into you. What are you going to do +about this? It is too much money for Barry and myself to take care of. +Bless your heart, I don't think he has fifty dollars to his name and I +wouldn't like to tell you the state of my finances. We have to think +out some way. Maybe Barry can see the Bishop."</p> + +<p>"Well, we'll have to stop thinking about it," said Father Ryan. "I +might just as well settle down where I am. I certainly will not get +very much of a promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big man, +covered with mud, in the church?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Father Fanning, "I did not notice him. Who was he? What +about him?"</p> + +<p>"He was a stranger," said Father Ryan, "and was very pleasant. He is a +prospector from New York. He has been up in the mountains and away +from church for the last three months. He must have found something up +there, because he is going on to New York to meet his backers; at +least, that is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over to +Caanan to-day to catch the fast train."</p> + +<p>"I wonder if he put anything in the collection?" said Father Fanning. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>[pg 101]</span> +</p> + +<p>"No, he did not," answered the pastor, "but he gave it to me afterward +and told me to put it in. By the way, here it is."</p> + +<p>He pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it flat on the table. +The three men gasped for breath. It was a thousand dollars.</p> + +<p>Father Fanning was the first to find words. "Great Scott, Ryan," he +said, "you ought to go out and thank God on your knees before the +altar. Here is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be a +millionaire."</p> + +<p>Father Ryan's face was all smiles. "Yes," he said, "it is the end of +my trouble. I never dreamed it would come to an end so easily. Thanks +be to God for it."</p> + +<p>The little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have no +comment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed at +the good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. But +he was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke.</p> + +<p>"What did you say you preached on to-day, Father Ryan?"</p> + +<p>"Why," broke in Fanning, "he preached on the Seminary. Didn't I tell +you! And a good sermon—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I preached on the Seminary," said Father Ryan. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>[pg 102]</span> +</p> + +<p>"But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you pledged every dollar +that came into the collection to the Seminary."</p> + +<p>"Why, surely," said Father Ryan, "but this did not come in through the +collection."</p> + +<p>"Yes," persisted Father Barry, "but did you not say that the strange +man told you to put it into the collection?"</p> + +<p>"Why—yes—yes, he did say something like that."</p> + +<p>"Well, then," urged Father Barry, "is it not a question to be debated +as to whether or not you can do anything else with the money?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, confound it all, Barry," cried Father Fanning. "You are a +rigorist. You don't understand this case. Now there's no use bringing +your old syllogisms into this business. This man is in a hole. He has +got to get out of it. What difference is it if I put my money in one +pocket or in the other pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. The +thousand dollar note was given to the Church, and the most necessary +thing now is to pay the debt on that part of it that's here. Why the +Seminary doesn't need it. The old Procurator would drop dead if he got +a thousand dollars from this parish."</p> + +<p>"Well, so far as I can see," said Father Barry, "what you say does not +change matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar—and every cent +for that matter—in that collection to the Seminary. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>[pg 103]</span> + This money forms +part of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men would +argue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was given +for a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it for +any other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply will +have to make restitution later on to the Seminary.</p> + +<p>"That's an awful way of looking at things," said Father Fanning. +"Confound it, I am glad I don't have to go to you for direction. Why, +its getting worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this money +would be only too glad to have it go to pay off the debt. What does he +know about the Seminary? He was attending the little church out here, +and whatever good he got from his visit came through Father Ryan and +his people. He is under obligation to them first. Can't you see that +it does not make any difference, after all. It is the same thing."</p> + +<p>"No, it is not the same thing," said Father Barry. "Perhaps we are too +much tempted to believe that gifts of this kind might be +interchangeable. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at home, and +that means that sometimes we unconsciously are full of zeal for our +own glory. Look it up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a +killjoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do a +lot of sorrowful thinking afterward."</p> + +<p>It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the +discussions only ended when the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>[pg 104]</span> +door closed upon them. There was not +a theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted.</p> + +<p>When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: "Well, I +guess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, +yourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I can +testify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, and +that is that I have learned more theology out of this three-day +discussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothing +like a fight to keep a fellow in training."</p> + +<p>His friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to his desk and wrote this +letter to his Bishop:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p><span class="sc">Your Lordship</span>—I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary + collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. You may be surprised at + the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note + handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate + the Seminary on getting it.</p> + +<p> "The church is ready for dedication as your Lordship + arranged.</p> + +<p> "Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the train."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Then Father Ryan went to bed. He did not expect to sleep very much +that night; but in spite of his worry, and to his own great surprise, +he had the most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priesthood. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>[pg 105]</span> +</p> + +<p>The church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe of face, abrupt in +manner, but if the truth were known, kindly at heart, finished his +work before he asked to see the books of the parish.</p> + +<p>Father Ryan was alone with his Lordship when the time for that ordeal +came. He handed the books to the Bishop and laid a financial statement +before him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then read it +through. The frown was still on his face as he looked up at the young +priest before him.</p> + +<p>"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me, +Father Ryan," he said. "You wrote me that the church was finished +without debt."</p> + +<p>"I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the letter. I had the money +on hand to pay the exact amount of the contract. The architect and the +builder came to me later and informed me that there had been extras, +of which I knew nothing, amounting to one thousand dollars. I am one +thousand dollars behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not my +fault, except that perhaps I should have known more about the tactics +of the men I was dealing with. I will have to raise the money some +way; and, of course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me to +Lansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I could. I will know +more about building next time."</p> + +<p>The Bishop had no word to say. Though the frown appeared pretty well +fixed upon his face, it did not seem quite natural. There was a +twinkle in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>[pg 106]</span> +his eye that only an expert on bishops could perceive.</p> + +<p>"But you sent me one thousand dollars more than I could have expected +only this week, for the Seminary," he said. That surely indicates that +you have some people here who might help you out of your dilemma."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, your Lordship," said Father Ryan, "but it does not +indicate that at all. I have no rich people. All of my people have +done the best they could for the new church. I will have to give them +a rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The man who gave +the thousand dollar bill was a stranger—a miner. I do not know him at +all. He did not even give his name, but said the money was for the +collection. I could not find any authority for keeping it for the +church here, though, to be candid, I wanted to do it. That is all."</p> + +<p>The Bishop still kept his eye on him. "Of course you know that your +appointment to Lansville was conditional."</p> + +<p>"I understand that, your Lordship," said Father Etan. "You have no +obligation to me at all in that regard."</p> + +<p>"Will you kindly step to the door and ask my Chancellor to come in?"</p> + +<p>When the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to him: "Have you the +letter I received from Mr. Wilcox?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>[pg 107]</span> +</p> + +<p>The Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, who unfolded it and, +taking another glance at the dejected young pastor, read it to him. It +was very much to the point.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>"<span class="sc">Dear Bishop</span>,—You may or may not know me, but I knew you + when you were pastor of St. Alexis in my native town. The + fact is, you baptized me. I would not even have known where + you were, had it not been for a mistake I made this morning. + I came down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ashford. + When I was going away I gave the young priest a thousand + dollar note. If you recognize my name, you will understand + that it was not too much for me to give, for though I am a + stingy sort of fellow, the Lord has blessed me with + considerable wealth. I remember saying to the young priest + that I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I + remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it out that he + would be sending the collection to you.</p> + +<p> "Now, I don't like to disappoint you, dear Bishop, but I did + not intend that money to go to the Seminary, but to the + pastor for the little parish. Later on, when developments + start in the mountains, and they will start when I get back + to New York, I may need that young priest to come up and + take care of my men; so I want the money to go to his + church, which, from what my driver told me coming over, + needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>[pg 108]</span> +for I + expect to be around your section of the country a great deal + in the future.</p> + + +<p class="letterClose1">"Respectfully yours,</p> + +<p class="letterClose2">"<span class="sc">Paul Wilcox</span>."</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Through tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all the sternness go out of +the Bishop's face.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Wilcox," said his Lordship, "is a millionaire many times over. He +is one of the largest mine operators in the world. He likes to do +things of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father Ryan; but I +think, if I were you, I would stay here. When Wilcox says things are +going to move, they usually do. Think it over and take your choice. +Here is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a good thing, Father, +to praise people; especially those I have to govern, so I am not going +to praise you for what you have done. It was right, and it was your +duty. I appreciate it." +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>[pg 109]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_OCCASION" id="THE_OCCASION"></a>THE OCCASION</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">MR. O'BRIEN of No. 32 Chestnut street had his entire family with him, +as he hurried to the eight o'clock Mass. Mrs. O'Brien was already +tired, though she had gone only a block from the house; for Elenora, +who always was tardy, had to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had come +down stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his hair which was +right above his forehead, but the back section, which the mirror did +not show, was tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. O'Brien's +part to make the children presentable; and hurry plus effort was not +good for—well, for folks who do not weigh as little as they did when +they were younger.</p> + +<p>Dr. Reilly met the O'Briens at the corner.</p> + +<p>"Hello," he called, "it's the whole family, bedad. What brings ye all +to the 'eight o'clock'?"</p> + +<p>Mr. O'Brien answered his family doctor only when the children were +left behind where they could not hear: "It's Father Collins' turn to +preach at the High Mass, Doc," he explained.</p> + +<p>"Sure, it is," said the Doctor. "Faith, I forgot that. I was going to +High Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure, +the poor +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>[pg 110]</span> +man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God is +neither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?"</p> + +<p>"He is the finest priest in the city," said Mr. O'Brien, looking back +to see if his regiment was following, "and the worst preacher. I can't +sit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he gets +before the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down, +trying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up +and say it for him."</p> + +<p>"Well, O 'Brien, I believe you could say it, judging from the way you +lecture us at the council meetings. And that brings me to the business +I had when I ran off to see you. Couldn't you let the Missis take care +of the children at this Mass? McGarvey wants to talk over something +with us. He's sick and can't get out. We'd both go to the 'nine +o'clock' and that will miss the sermon, too."</p> + +<p>Mr. O'Brien nodded his head complacently. They had reached the front +of the church, and whom should they meet but Father Collins hurrying +out from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the street.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Father," cried the children in chorus, just as they did +when one of the priests visited their room in the parochial school. +The two men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins returned +the salute. He crossed the street quickly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>[pg 111]</span> +and ran up stairs to his +own room in the rectory, but did not notice that O'Brien and the +doctor went past the church.</p> + +<p>Be it known that Father Collins was the third assistant. He had been +ordained one year. The first assistant, who was still fasting, with +the obligation of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in Father +Collins' favorite chair, when the owner of it entered.</p> + +<p>"Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house," the first +assistant called. "Come in, man, and be at home. I couldn't sleep, so +I had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but," he had caught +the expression on his friend's face, "what is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing much, nothing much," replied Father Collins, "only I see +the whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o'clock Mass. The +O'Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You know, they always go +to High Mass."</p> + +<p>"Which," remarked Father Grady, "is no compliment either to my +singing, or your Eminence's preaching, or to both."</p> + +<p>"Oh, your singing is all right," assured Father Collins.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Father Grady, "I accept the correction. I am a modest +man, but I must acknowledge that I can sing—at least, relatively +speaking, for I haven't very much to compete against. However, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>[pg 112]</span> +if it +is not my singing, then it must be your preaching."</p> + +<p>"It is, it is," answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness in +his voice. "Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in the +Seminary. You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I work +hard. I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript is +finished I know it by heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Look +at it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong with it."</p> + +<p>Father Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while Father +Collins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it. In +truth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top, +until the manuscript had been laid down.</p> + +<p>"My dear Collins, you are right," said Father Grady. "It is a good +sermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutely +nothing wrong with it."</p> + +<p>"But," urged Father Collins, "I shall spoil it."</p> + +<p>"Well," said his friend, "candor compels me to acknowledge that you +probably shall. I don't know why. Can't you raise your voice? Can't +you have courage? The people won't bite you. You can talk well enough +to the school children. You can talk well enough to me. Why can't you +stand up and be natural? Just be yourself and talk to them as you talk +to us. That is the whole secret." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>[pg 113]</span> +</p> + +<p>"It is my nervousness, Grady," said Father Collins. "I am afraid the +minute I enter the church to preach. When I open my mouth, I lose my +voice out of fear. That is what it is—fear. I am simply an arrant +coward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it."</p> + +<p>"Now, look here," said his companion earnestly, "you are not a coward. +You can preach. It is in you, and it will come out, yet. I call this +sermon nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace up now, +the occasion will come to loosen your tongue. It surely will."</p> + +<p>"This is the worst day I have had," groaned poor Father Collins. "I am +shaking like a leaf, already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor just +this once. You preach so easily. You can get up a sermon in half an +hour. You have nothing to do until half past ten. Now, let me go out +and make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o'clock +Mass. Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words to +them. You preach at High Mass."</p> + +<p>"Well, I ought not to do it," said Father Grady, thoughtfully, "for if +I do such things, it may spoil you. You ought not to give way, +but—you are white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it this +time, so I had better look over something."</p> + +<p>Father Collins was overjoyed. He could not help it. He went to the +church to prepare for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>[pg 114]</span> + Mass and prompt to the minute he was in the +sanctuary.</p> + +<p>The Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the first Gospel, when the +Sacristan came to the priest's side and whispered a message. He was +plainly excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the congregation. +Father Collins leaned over to hear what he had to say.</p> + +<p>"Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the church basement now, +right under your feet. The firemen are working on it, but can't put it +out. We have stopped people from coming in to stampede the others. The +galleries are filled with the children, and we have to get them out, +first. If there is a rush the children will be killed at the bottom of +the gallery stairs, where they meet the people from the body of the +church out in that vestibule. The chief sent me to you to tell you to +go on preaching and hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes. +The firemen will get the little ones out without noise or fuss, if you +can keep the attention of the people. I'll whisper 'all right' to you +when they are gone. Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It is +the only chance you have to save those children in this ramshackle old +building, so you preach for all you are worth and don't let the people +look up at the galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owe +their lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>[pg 115]</span> +</p> + +<p>The Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the priest thought of +the galleries emptying into the little vestibule and meeting a rush of +the people from the church.</p> + +<p>Father Collins took off his chasuble and maniple and placed them upon +the altar. He wondered at his own coolness. He advanced to the front +of the altar platform, opening his book; but he closed it again +coolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every corner of the +building, which he could not believe was his own, he began.</p> + +<p>"On second thought, my friends," he said, "I will not read the Epistle +or the Gospel to-day. I have a few words to say to you, though a +sermon is not expected at this Mass."</p> + +<p>In a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O'Brien groaned softly. They had +been caught by the dreaded sermon.</p> + +<p>Father Collins announced his text. The congregation was surprised that +it was to have a sermon instead of the usual reading, but it was more +surprised at the change in Father Collins; so much, indeed, that it +was almost breathless. The priest glanced up at the gallery, quickly, +and saw that the children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had ten +minutes to fill in. The people below could see only the front rows of +the gallery, which in this church, built in the old style, ran on +three sides. So Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he had + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>[pg 116]</span> +prepared for the High Mass, but which he could not deliver. The +beauty of it had been plain to Father Grady when he read it; but it +was plainer to the enraptured congregation which sat listening to +every syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O'Brien attempted to sleep. +In fact there were no sleepers at all, for upright in the pews sat +every man and woman, hanging on the preacher's words.</p> + +<p>In the midst of his discourse Father Collins detected the smell of +smoke and thought that all was lost. But he made another effort. His +voice rose higher and his words thundered over the heads of the +astonished people, who were so rapt that they could not even ask +themselves what had wrought the miracle. If they smelled the smoke, +they gave no sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held them +in the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins took another glance at +the gallery. The front row would go in a moment. Above all, the people +must not be distracted now. Something must be done to hold their +attention when the noise of the moving of that front row would fall +upon their ears. In two minutes all would be well. That two minutes +were the greatest of the priest's life. Into them centered every bit +of intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he possessed. He rapidly +skipped part of his sermon and came to the burst of appeal, with which +he was to close. The people could see him tremble in every limb. His +face was as white as his surplice. His +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>[pg 117]</span> +eyes were wide open and +shining as if he were deeply moved by his own pleadings. He quickly +descended the steps of the altar and advanced to the railing. The +congregation did not dare to take its eyes away from him. The noise of +the departing children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of the +man had been transferred to his listeners. A whispered 'all right' +reached the priest from the lips of the Sacristan behind, and Father +Collins stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with which he +began his discourse. It was a soft, musical voice, that people till +now did not know he possessed.</p> + +<p>"My friends," he said, "keep your seats for a moment. Those in the +front pews will go out quietly now. Let one pew empty at a time. Do +not crowd. There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken out +below, and we want to take every precaution for safety."</p> + +<p>"Stop," he thundered, and his voice went up again. "You, who are +leaving from the center of the church, remain in your seats. Do not +start a rush. Do not worry about the children, they are all out. Look +at the galleries. They are empty. The children were cool. Do not let +the little ones shame you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance."</p> + +<p>With voice and gesture, he directed the movement of the people, and +then, the church emptied, he looked toward the vestry door. The +Sacristan was there. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>[pg 118]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Hurry, Father," he called, tearing off his cassock. "The floor here +may give way any moment. Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament. +Hurry!"</p> + +<p>They were out before the floor fell and the flames burst into the big +church, which, poor old relic of the days of wood, went down into the +ashes of destruction.</p> + +<p>Mr. O'Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home with Dr. Reilly, but +neither of them had much to say. Both paused at the corner where their +ways parted.</p> + +<p>Then Mr. O'Brien spoke: "What did you think of the sermon, Doc?"</p> + +<p>"I think," said the doctor, deliberately, "that though it cost us the +price of a new church, 'twas well worth it." +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>[pg 119]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_YANKEE_TRAMP" id="THE_YANKEE_TRAMP"></a>THE YANKEE TRAMP</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">THEY were old cronies, M. le Cure de St. Eustace and M. le Cure de +Ste. Agatha, though the priestly calling seemed all they had in +common. The first was small of stature, thin of face, looking like a +mediæval, though he was a modern, saint; the other tall, well filled +out like an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the nearest +approach to a scoffer in the two parishes, ever went so far as to call +the Cure of Ste. Agatha by such an undeserved name, since the good, +fat priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all the country +knew but never mentioned. They loved him too much to mention his +faults. He was good to the sick and faithful to their interests, +though—"<i>Il etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme</i>." +Besides, the Cure of St. Eustace was <i>too</i> generous. Every beggar got +a meal from him and some of them money, till he spoiled the whole +tribe of them and they became so bold—well there was serious talk of +protesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his charities.</p> + +<p>The garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest place on earth for both +the cronies after Vespers had been sung in their parishes on Sunday +afternoons, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>[pg 120]</span> +and the three miles covered from the Presbytery of Ste. +Agatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. On a fine day it was +delightful to sit under the great trees and see the flowers and chat +and smoke, with just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing out +of Margot's kingdom. It was a standing rule that this meal was to be +taken together on Sunday and the visit prolonged far into the +night—until old Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and carried +his master off about half-past ten. <i>"Grand Dieu. Quelle +dissipation!"</i> Only on this night did either one stay up after nine.</p> + +<p>What experiences were told these Sunday nights! Big and authoritative +were the words of M. le Cure de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending were +his comments and the accounts of his week's doings. And his friend's? +<i>Bien</i>, they were not much, but "they made him a little pleasure to +narrate"—what he would tell of them.</p> + +<p>This night they were talking of beggars, a new phase of the old +question. They had only beggars in Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. A +few pennies would suffice for them, and when they got old there were +always the good Sisters of the Poor to care for them. There were no +tramps.</p> + +<p>"This fellow was different, <i>mon ami</i>," the Cure de St. Eustace was +saying, "he would almost bother you yourself with all your experience. +He came +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>[pg 121]</span> +from over the line—from the States, and he had a remarkable +story."</p> + +<p>"<i>Bien oui</i>, they all have," broke in his friend, "but I send them to +Marie and she feeds them—nothing more. They can not trap me with any +of their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. I am hard +of heart about such things, and very sensible."</p> + +<p>"Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the time till dinner. I +found the man seated on the gallery in front. He spoke only English. +When I came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely for a +Yankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no right to say that, for the +Yankees are as the <i>bon Dieu</i> made them and they are too busy to be +polite.</p> + +<p>"'You are the priest?' he asked me.</p> + +<p>"'Yes, Monsieur, I am.'</p> + +<p>"'You speak English?'</p> + +<p>"'Enough to understand. What is it?'</p> + +<p>"'I am not a tramp, Father,'—he looked very weary and sad—'and it is +not money; though I am very hungry. You will give me something? +Thanks, but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can help—very +much.'</p> + +<p>"I gave him a seat and he dropped into it.</p> + +<p>"'Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I am just out of +prison. I was discharged yesterday in New York and I lost no time in +coming here. This is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago with + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>[pg 122]</span> +my chum. We were burglars and we were running away after a big +operation in New York. We had stolen $8,000 in money and valuables, +and we had it all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quiet +village till the storm would blow over. Among the valuables was a +strange ring. I had never seen anything like it and my chum wanted it +for himself, but we were afraid and took it to one of your +jewelers—right down the street to the left—Nadeau was his name—to +have it altered a little and made safe to wear. That little jeweler +suspected us. I saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed the +constable of the ring matter. We were watched and then we saw that it +would be better to go. We feared that the New York police would learn +of us, so we took the stuff out three miles in the country one dark +night and buried it. I know the spot, for it is near the old school +where the road turns for Sherbrooke. Then we went West, to Michigan. +We broke into a store there and we were arrested, but New York heard +of the capture and the Michigan authorities gave us up. We were tried +and a lawyer defended us by the Judge's order. He got us off with ten +years in Sing Sing. I have been there till yesterday, as I told you. +My chum? Well, that brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend to +break down. He is dead. He died well. A priest converted him, and my +chum repented of his life and begged me to change mine when I got out. +I am +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>[pg 123]</span> +going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I'll never forget +his death. He called me and said: 'Bunky, that loot is worrying me. +The priest says that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs can +be found. If they can not it must be spent in works of charity. +Promise me that you will go to St. Eustace and get it, Bunky, and give +it back. Promise!'</p> + +<p>"Then he broke down, <i>mon ami</i>, and I fear that I cried just a little +too. It was sad, for he was a great strong man.</p> + +<p>"When he could, he looked up and continued: 'Well, Father, I am here +to do it. I want your help. May I have it?'</p> + +<p>"I told him I would do what I could. He wanted me to take the money +and give it to the owner. He would tell me his name. I was glad to aid +the poor man who was so repentant.</p> + +<p>"'All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable man to go with me +to-night. I can find the place,' he said.</p> + +<p>"I offered to send the sexton with him and let him have the pick and +shovel from the cemetery. I gave him food and thanked God as I watched +him eat, that grace was working in his heart again.</p> + +<p>"'I will wait for the man at seven to-night, Father,' he said when he +was leaving. 'Let him meet me with the horse and buggy just outside of +the town. If there is danger I will not see him, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>[pg 124]</span> +he can return. I +will take the pick and shovel now, and bring the stuff to you in a +valise by 10 o'clock. Wait up for me.'</p> + +<p>"He left and the sexton went to the road at seven, but did not see +him. At 10 o'clock I heard him coming. It was very dark and he knocked +sharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door and he thrust a +valise into my hand. It was heavy.</p> + +<p>"'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when I will bring the key. +The valise is locked. Give me something that I may buy a night's +lodging and I will come back at seven.'</p> + +<p>"I gave him the first note in my purse and he hurried away.</p> + +<p>"Now I fear, <i>mon ami</i>, that I never quite overcame my childish +curiosity, for I felt a burning desire to see all that treasure, +especially the strange ring. I must root out that fault before I die +or my purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where I had a good +chisel, and I am sorry to confess that I opened the valise just a very +little to see the heap of precious things. There was an old cigar-box +and something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel down till I +opened the box. There was no treasure in it at all, but just a lot of +iron-shavings. I felt that I had been fooled and I broke the valise +open. The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of old +coupling-pins from the railroad. I was disgusted with this sinner, +this thief. But it was droll—it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>[pg 125]</span> +was droll—and I could scarcely +sleep with laughing at the whole farce. I know that was sinful. I +should have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee tramp."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/124-lg.png" name="fig124" id="fig124"> +<img src="images/124-sm.png" alt=""Mon Dieu! It was mine."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"Mon Dieu! It was mine."</p> +</div> + +<p>"And the valise? What did you do with it?" asked the hard-hearted Cure +of Ste. Agatha, who must have felt sorry that the friend could be so +easily duped. "What did you do with the valise?"</p> + +<p>"I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me and I couldn't +understand why. It was so good—almost new. I felt that the sight of +it would make me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I wanted +to forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to the good Sisters at the +Hospital, to use when they must travel to Sherbrooke."</p> + +<p>The Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He plainly wanted to speak but +choked back twice. Then he rose and looked at his friend with a face +as red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took two steps, came +back, and spoke rapidly. "Do you think the Sisters will bring it back, +the valise? <i>Mon Dieu</i>! It was mine."</p> + +<p>Ten miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles from Ste. Agatha a +Yankee tramp was hurrying toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He had +the money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket keeping company +with one note from the purse of the generous Cure of St. Eustace and +one of a much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>[pg 126]</span> +larger denomination, from the wise but hard-hearted +Cure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps.</p> + +<p>And this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of St. Eustace saw it: +that some gloomy and worried millionaires are lost to the States, to +make a few irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their wits, and +whose sins even are amusing. One must not blame them overmuch.</p> + +<p>As to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no opinions on the matter at +all, for the Sisters gave him back his new valise. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>[pg 127]</span> +<h2><a name="HOW_FATHER_TOM_CONNOLLY_BEGAN_TO_BE_A_SAINT" id="HOW_FATHER_TOM_CONNOLLY_BEGAN_TO_BE_A_SAINT"></a>HOW FATHER TOM CONNOLLY BEGAN TO BE A SAINT</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">IF you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like him, because—well, +just because Father Tom Connolly was one of the kind whom everybody +liked. He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he was +big, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the <i>soggarth aroon</i> +kind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get into +difficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you to +talk it all over with. But Father Tom had a large parish, in a +good-sized country town, to look after; and so, while you thought that +you might monopolize all of his sympathy in your bit of possible +trouble, he had hundreds whose troubles had already materialized, and +was waiting for yours with a wealth of experience which would only +make his smile deeper and his grasp heartier when the task of +consoling you came to his door and heart.</p> + +<p>Now, there lived in the same town as Father Tom another priest of +quite a different make. He, too, had a Christian name. It was Peter; +but no one ever called him Father <i>Peter</i>. Every one addressed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>[pg 128]</span> +him as +Father <i>Ilwin</i>. Somehow this designation alone fitted him. It was not +that this other priest was unkind—not at all—but it was just that in +Father Tom's town he did not quite fit.</p> + +<p>Father Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to build a new church, and +that on a slice of Father Tom's territory, which the Bishop lopped off +to form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He had no rich brogue on +his tongue to charm you into looking at his coat in expectation +of seeing his big heart burst out to welcome you. He was +thoughtful-looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his new +church building grew very slowly.</p> + +<p>I have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the life +of me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which the +villain—but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this +story has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day follows +night—for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare—that +when Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and just +as naturally—God help us—there was enough of human nature in Father +Tom to say, "I told you so" to himself, and to have him pity Father +Ilwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings more +than a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of his +people of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, "He meant well, good +lad," they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>[pg 129]</span> + Tom; but when +Father Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lips +tightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip his +heart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! and +human nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have to +give up. Of course, people <i>did</i> say that Father Ilwin was ungracious +and unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I have +a tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the only +obstacle to his success was the <i>one</i> that people never <i>could</i> see, +and that the <i>obstacle himself</i> was never <i>likely</i> to see.</p> + +<p>But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom +believed in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. +So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a +friendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no +homes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every +little curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that +was enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the +same terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in +building the church across the river. The people understood.</p> + +<p>It had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse—not <i>too</i> +large, but large enough—might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he +had "built his church by hard scraping, and that is how +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>[pg 130]</span> +churches +should be built." Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on this +account. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me +to criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as a +father; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and +worn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seem +to sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there were +open murmurs that "the people had built one church and should not be +asked now to build another"; or "what was good enough for Father Tom +was good enough for anyone"; or "the Bishop should have consulted <i>us</i> +before he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish." In the +other part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none +would think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father +Ilwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you +wonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from "the Rev. +Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen," to help in the +erection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it +and went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the +plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/130-lg.png" name="fig130" id="fig130"> +<img src="images/130-sm.png" alt=""Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, +where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, +and cried like a baby."" /></a> +<p class="caption">"Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, +where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, +and cried like a baby."</p> +</div> + +<p>It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was +again much to his credit with the people. "Sure, <i>he</i> never takes a +vacation at all," they said. But at last a call came that he could not + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>[pg 131]</span> +refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a +monastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see +a sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the +Southwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not—I do not know, and +I do not judge—that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to +the monastery that, "as the weather is warm, the father who comes to +take my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon." +It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside. +He could preach a little himself, and he knew it.</p> + +<p>It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom's +dying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the +train at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But he +soon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in a +buggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of +clerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its +occupant.</p> + +<p>"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?"</p> + +<p>"I am," said the priest in surprise.</p> + +<p>"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me."</p> + +<p>Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>[pg 132]</span> +</p> + +<p>"You—you are a clergyman?" he stammered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a +Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians."</p> + +<p>If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no +more was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the +Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no +time.</p> + +<p>"Patrick," said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Tom, he is."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no +warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to +how I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite +right. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show +her."</p> + +<p>"How did <i>one</i> stay?"</p> + +<p>"She didn't <i>stay</i>. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by a +priest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this +town for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I would +not have sent even for you, Tom, only <i>she</i> made me."</p> + +<p>Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a +long minute. Then he took his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>[pg 133]</span> +brother's hand and said in his old boy +language: "Paddy, lad, tell me all about it—how you fell away. Maybe +there was something of an excuse for it."</p> + +<p>"I thought there was," said the dying man, "but now all seems +different. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic +settlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churches +built, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get +me, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. It +was a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; and +later a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and we +got together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in the +bank—one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got a +thousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringing +twelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back and +wait. Without church or priest, the children went to the +Sunday-schools and—I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift +until this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholics +together and converted my best—my baby girl—Kathleen. She was named +after mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars this +time, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help.' So +he went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to +help at all. They have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>[pg 134]</span> +rich parishes, whose people would be glad to +give something; but the priests said, 'No.' They thought helping was a +mistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred +dollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended the +struggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan went +away. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away.' My boy went to a +college his mother liked—and you saw him. The others—except +Kathleen—are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bear +before the judgment seat, but Tom—Tom, you don't know the struggle it +cost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight."</p> + +<p>A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand +which she took as she sat beside him.</p> + +<p>"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. She +sits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know it +won't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle where +there is a church and a chance to profit by it."</p> + +<p>Father Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later.</p> + +<p>He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephew +accompanied them to the train and said with unction:</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you," and Father Tom groaned down +to his heart of hearts. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>[pg 135]</span> +</p> + +<p>Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrived +home, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she saw +him and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said:</p> + +<p>"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another."</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed, we do," cried the child. "Why, uncle, it was Father +<i>Peter</i> who converted me."</p> + +<p>Father Tom heard, but did not say a word.</p> + +<p>It was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserable +little room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table still +reposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heard +outside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He had +profited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrived +at his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones.</p> + +<p>"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest and +Christian should—but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't. +Ilwin, <i>we</i> can build that church and <i>we will</i>. Here are a thousand +dollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collection +for you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going about +with ye. I think I know where we can get some more."</p> + +<p>Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>[pg 136]</span> +<h2><a name="THE_UNBROKEN_SEAL" id="THE_UNBROKEN_SEAL"></a>THE UNBROKEN SEAL</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">THE priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner of +the road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud +Run, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. He +was coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to +administer the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had +shot down the night before.</p> + +<p>Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest +while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate +alone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in the +rear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was glad +enough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in +his way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his very +best friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if he +had no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed +town. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caught +a few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster, +with that peculiar +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>[pg 137]</span> +nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickened +his steps even more for it.</p> + +<p>"Company—oppressors of the poor—traitors"; even these few words, +which followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade.</p> + +<p>The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash +of glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw +that Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a +shawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from +the crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position +in front of the livery stable.</p> + +<p>A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the +street, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of them +saluted. "Bad business, Father," he said. "Will the lieutenant live?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid he will not," answered the priest.</p> + +<p>"They will surely burn down the company's buildings," said the +soldier. "God! There they go now." And the soldier hurried on.</p> + +<p>Later the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded him +of blood, and he shuddered.</p> + +<p>His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper.</p> + +<p>"I can not go out much now," he said to her. "I am a Pole. What could +a Pole do with these Huns +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>[pg 138]</span> +who have no sympathy with him, or the +Italians whose language he can not speak?"</p> + +<p>He wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with his +servant?</p> + +<p>"Slevski," she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me +on the street this morning."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried to +speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these +men are his property now."</p> + +<p>"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday," said the old housekeeper. +"Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the +soldiers."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Judith," said the priest, "at heart they are good people, +and this will pass away. The women fear God."</p> + +<p>"They fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski +always."</p> + +<p>The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which +could wait and does not grow old.</p> + +<p>After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of +the burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be +useless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to +the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>[pg 139]</span> +</p> + +<p>A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The +priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's +wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was +English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her +three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited +for her to speak.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a +confession may ever be revealed by the priest?"</p> + +<p>"It is true," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged.</p> + +<p>"Even if he were to die."</p> + +<p>The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on:</p> + +<p>"May he even not betray it by an action?"</p> + +<p>"Not even by an action."</p> + +<p>"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety.</p> + +<p>"Even then."</p> + +<p>"I wish to confess," she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneel +afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here—and I must do +it quickly."</p> + +<p>"It will take only a minute if we go to the church," he answered. "It +is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, +unless in case of illness."</p> + +<p>"Then let us go," she said, "and hurry." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>[pg 140]</span> +</p> + +<p>They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the +confessional. Later she told all that had happened.</p> + +<p>"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession of +late?"</p> + +<p>"Three years ago," and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It was +before I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to +you. Listen now, for there isn't very much time." He bent his head and +said: "I am listening."</p> + +<p>She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. I +heard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I +could not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working +against the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a +sick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had +to warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without—without a +prayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I +can say."</p> + +<p>"It is very simple," said the priest. "I need not go."</p> + +<p>"Then they will know that I told you," she answered breathlessly. Her +eyes showed her fright.</p> + +<p>"You are right," said the priest. "I fear that it would violate the +Seal if I refused to go."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, and +he—he suspects me already. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>[pg 141]</span> + He may have followed me, for I refused to +call you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I +am not ready to die—and he would kill me."</p> + +<p>"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care +of me," said the priest. "Finish your confession."</p> + +<p>In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and +his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski—and he +knew that the woman had been followed.</p> + +<p>He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide +open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back +to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and +finished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his +chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an +envelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm, +but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above +his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before +it. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and +whispering:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity +on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You."</p> + +<p>Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did +not go. Perhaps Slevski had not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>[pg 142]</span> +suspected his wife at all—but had +the priest not seen him outside the church?</p> + +<p>The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath +of air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as +to what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the +altar, awaited his call.</p> + +<p>It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an +hour to summon him.</p> + +<p>"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is +for his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying."</p> + +<p>The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but +Kendis had left.</p> + +<p>The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his +favorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked at +it, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christ +gazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest's +eyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened the +door, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the street +his walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step of +a man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something.</p> + +<p>The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was +that night a Via Dolorosa; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>[pg 143]</span> +that along it a man who loved them dragged +a heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another +sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary.</p> + +<p>Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was +sprung. +</p> + + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>[pg 144]</span> +<h2><a name="MAC_OF_THE_ISLAND" id="MAC_OF_THE_ISLAND"></a>MAC OF THE ISLAND</h2> + +<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of + Contents</a></p> + +<p class="dropcap">WHEN the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving +me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space +upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen +minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only +outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives +call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that +stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his +rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, +made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer.</p> + +<p>We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It +was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; +but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod—oh, such potatoes and +cod—were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the +Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>[pg 145]</span> +</p> + +<p>We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the +country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and +always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep +and kept bright green by the moisture.</p> + +<p>"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the +buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in +which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and +the bluer waters were blended.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do," replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I +were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close +my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell +of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at +that," he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see +how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields. +Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed +through it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One +is called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a +funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them +by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever +set foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and—" But Mac +turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a +buggy. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>[pg 146]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Doctor," he called. The doctor bowed with what looked +like gracious condescension.</p> + +<p>Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I +must love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way, +that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a +college in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very +important part of Island life."</p> + +<p>"But I do not think, Mac," I suggested, "that he was quite as +fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer," said Mac quickly. "In +fact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec +McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow—you know that +Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this +Island—and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's +farm. But say, Bruce," and Mac turned to me very quickly, "what +brought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit. +Now, own up." He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and +looked me in the face. "Surely," he went on, "you would not have +thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came," I answered, +"but you guess well, for this time I was sent." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>[pg 147]</span> +</p> + +<p>Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent? +Good! I am glad. Now, out with it."</p> + +<p>"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a +chance to get you."</p> + +<p>"Get me?" Mac grew grave again.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the old place wants you—for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old +Chalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than +the best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come, +and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you. +You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this." And I +waved my hand toward the bay.</p> + +<p>Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the +interview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the +conversation abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Look over there, Bruce," and he pointed with his whip toward the +distance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman +of Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around +here. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the +Interior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning +next. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the +Island itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac," I answered, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>[pg 148]</span> +not quite seeing why +he had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"No," he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. It +would frighten them off. It would require explanations. What +difference if I have six letters after my name? To these people, +worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any +more."</p> + +<p>"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you; +you mustn't refuse."</p> + +<p>There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce, +old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not +know. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love +I have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine +that old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an +army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his +heart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in +this world I would rather have had than your message, but I must +refuse the offer."</p> + +<p>"Now Mac," I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you. +Scenery won't make up."</p> + +<p>"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it? +But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things +God made me to do—and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not +think I am foolish or headstrong, I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>[pg 149]</span> +long for my work. But Bruce, if +you can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give +up one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix, +Bruce."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?" I began +urging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card. +"Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life but +that farm, and you—heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one of +the greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe the +world something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressed +even the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You get +a curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call you +Alec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doing +work that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work that +no one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for other +people, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Bruce." Mac said it sadly. "There's the rub. I was given +obligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now, +instead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I +want you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubborn +Islander. And there is home."</p> + +<p>He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from the +road nearly a quarter of a mile. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>[pg 150]</span> + Mac opened the gate, led the horse +through it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me. +There were tears in his brown eyes.</p> + +<p>"Is every one well?" said Mac hesitatingly. "Is everybody well—I mean +of the people I knew best back there?" he asked. I knew what he meant.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mac, <i>she</i> is well," I said, "and I know she is waiting."</p> + +<p>I had played my "trump card," but Mac was silent.</p> + +<p>The farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen door opened directly +on the farmyard, and around it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys, +ducks, geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate in the +flower-garden fence, and, passing through it, we walked along the +pathway before the house, so that I could enter through the front door +and be received in the "front room." Island opposition to affectation +or "putting on," as the people say, forbade calling this "front room" +a parlor. No one would think of doing such a thing, unless he was +already well along the way to "aristocracy." One dare not violate the +unwritten Island law to keep natural and plain.</p> + +<p>I noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the cultured accents of +the old college; but before others he spoke as the Islanders +spoke—good English, better English than that of the farmers I knew, +but flat—the extremity of plainness. I could not analyze +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>[pg 151]</span> +that Island +brogue. It sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant only +because unsoftened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It struck +me as a sort of protest against affectation; as the Islander's way of +explaining, without putting it in the sense of the words, that he does +not want to be taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is a +notice that the user of it meets you man to man. So it reflected Mac, +and it reflected his people, unspoiled, unvarnished, true as steel, +full of rigid honesty; but undemonstrative, with the wells of +affection hidden, yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water.</p> + +<p>The "front room" had a hand-woven carpet on the floor, made of a +material called "drugget." A few old prints, in glaring colors, were +on the walls. There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking picture of +the dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an altar above and candles all +around it. It was a strange religious conceit. On another wall was a +coffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and framed, with a little +photograph of a young man in the center of the flowers. The chairs +were plain enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. It was +not Mac's kind of a room, at all. It made me shudder and wonder how +the scholar who loved his old book-lined college den and knew the old +masters, could even live near to it.</p> + +<p>Mac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who walked with a cane. +She was bent and wrinkled with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>[pg 152]</span> +age. I could see that she was blind. +She had a strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had only a +vague recollection of seeing as a boy, about her shoulders; and on her +head was a black cap with white ruching around her face.</p> + +<p>"My mother, Bruce," he said, very simply.</p> + +<p>As I took the old lady's hand, he said to her: "This is my old friend, +Professor Bruce, mother. He has come all the way from New York to see +me. I'll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sister has been +bedridden for years, Bruce."</p> + +<p>The old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. Mac smiled at me as he +led her to a chair and said: "Bruce does not look like a professor, +mother. He just looks like me."</p> + +<p>I could see all the Island respect for learning in the poor old lady's +deference. Mac left us, and his mother asked if I would not have some +tea. I refused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to the +hour of the evening meal.</p> + +<p>"So, you knew my son at college?" said the mother.</p> + +<p>"I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my dearest friend."</p> + +<p>The old lady began to cry softly.</p> + +<p>"I am so sorry," she said, "that he failed in his examinations, and +yet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, for it is a comfort to have him. +Ellie is a cripple and without Alec what would we do? Of course, if + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>[pg 153]</span> +he hadn't failed, I couldn't hope to keep him, so it is better, +perhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart boy and so anxious to get +on. It was a great disappointment to him; and then, of course, none of +us liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was not cut out for +something better than a farmer. But you must have liked him, when you +came all the way from New York to see him."</p> + +<p>I began to understand.</p> + +<p>That night I thought it all out in my little room, with the flies +buzzing around me and the four big posts standing guard over a feather +bed, into which I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac in +the morning.</p> + +<p>He had already done a good day's work in the fields, before I was up +for breakfast, so we went into the garden to thresh it out.</p> + +<p>"Mac," I said severely, "did you tell your mother and sister and the +people around here that you had failed in your examinations?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Bruce," he said haltingly, "I did not exactly tell them that, +but I let them think it."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord!" I thought, "the man who easily led the whole college." +But aloud: "Did you tell them you had no career open to you in New +York?"</p> + +<p>"Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too."</p> + +<p>"And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling scholarship you won, +or the offers that Yale made you?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>[pg 154]</span> +</p> + +<p>"Oh, what was the use, Bruce?" said Mac desperately. "I know it was +wrong, but it was the only way I saw. Look here. When I got back home, +with all these letters after my name and that traveling scholarship to +my credit, I found sister as I told you she was—you'll see her +yourself this morning, poor girl—and mother blind. Brother, the best +brother that ever lived—it is his picture they have in that hideous +frame in the front room—died two months before I graduated. Bruce, +there was no one but me. If I had told the truth, they would not have +let me stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, sister never +wore a decent dress or a decent hat, and mother never had that thing +that every old lady on the Island prizes, a silk dress, just because +she saved the money for me. I told you that these people worship +learning after God." He put his hand to his eyes. "Bruce, I am lonely. +I have grown out of the ways of my people. But you wouldn't ask me to +grow out of a sense of my duty too?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't want you to come with me, Mac," I said. "I am going back +alone. When you are free, the college is waiting. She can be as +generous as her son, and, I hope, as patient."</p> + +<p>Mac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with me again from its +summit over the waters of Pownal Bay. I understood now its appeal to +him. The waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his Promised +Land. Would Tea Hill, plain little eminence, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>[pg 155]</span> +be to Mac a new Mount +Nebo, from which he should gaze longingly, but never leave?</p> + +<p>Plain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, scholar with a great +mind, son and brother with heart of purest gold! I could not see you +through the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this your +Island of the good and true amongst God's children, but I could think +only of you as she passed the lighthouse, and the two tiny islands +that every one knows but no one visits, and moved down the Strait of +Northumberland toward the world that is yours by right of your genius, +that wants you and is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac, +though my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, so well, that +already had He given you treasures beyond a selfish world's ken to +value or to understand.</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The City and the World and Other +Stories, by Francis Clement Kelley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + +***** This file should be named 15444-h.htm or 15444-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/4/4/15444/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The City and the World and Other Stories + +Author: Francis Clement Kelley + +Release Date: March 23, 2005 [EBook #15444] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. Shiffer and the +PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + +_The City and the World_ +and Other Stories + +BY + +FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY + + +Author of + +"The Last Battle of the Gods," "Letters to Jack." +"The Book of Red and Yellow." Etc., Etc. + + +SECOND EDITION + + +EXTENSION PRESS +223 W. Jackson Boulevard +CHICAGO + +1913 + + + + +PREFACE + + +These stories were not written at one time, nor were they intended +for publication in book form. For the most part they were +contributions to _Extension Magazine_, of which the author is Editor, +and which is, above all, a missionary publication. Most of them, +therefore, were intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories. +In fact, there was not even a remote idea in the author's mind when he +wrote them that some day they might be introduced to other readers +than those reached by the magazine itself. In fact, he might almost +say that the real object of most of the stories was to present a +Catholic missionary appeal in a new way. Apparently the stories +succeeded in doing that, and a few of them were made up separately in +booklets and used for the propaganda work of The Catholic Church +Extension Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so the +writer consented to allow the stories to appear in book form; hoping +that, thus gathered together, his little appeals for what he considers +the greatest cause in the world may win a few new friends to the ideas +which gave them life and name. + +FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY. + +CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, July 30, 1913. + + + + +[Illustration: "Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a +cold fear."] + + + + + CONTENTS + + TITLES Page + +The City and the World 1 +The Flaming Cross 20 +The Vicar-General 44 +The Resurrection of Alta 53 +The Man with a Dead Soul 67 +The Autobiography of a Dollar 74 +Le Braillard de la Magdeleine 82 +The Legend of Deschamps 84 +The Thousand Dollar Note 89 +The Occasion 109 +The Yankee Tramp 119 +How Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint 127 +The Unbroken Seal 136 +Mac of the Island 144 + + + + +THE CITY AND THE WORLD + + +Father Denfili, old and blind, telling his beads in the corner of the +cloister garden, sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought him from his +confessional in the great church to the bench where day after day he +kept his sightless vigil over the pond of the goldfish, turned back at +the sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili's face, thought he +must have fancied the sigh. For sadness came alien to the little +garden of the Community of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous gem +of a little garden under its square of Roman sky. The dripping of the +tiny fountain, tinkling like a bit of familiar music, and the swelling +tones of the organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered beneath +the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged their murmurings into the +peacefulness of San Ambrogio, that Father Tomasso, just from the +novitiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have dreamed Father +Denfili's sigh. For what could trouble the old man here in San +Ambrogio on this, the greatest day of the Community? + +For to-day Father Ramoni had returned to Rome. Even as Father Tomasso +passed the fountain a group of Fathers and novices were gathering +around one of the younger priests, who still wore his fereoula and +wide-brimmed hat, just as he had entered from Via Paoli. The +newcomer's eyes traveled joyously over his breathless audience, +calling Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news. + +"Yes, it is true," he was saying. "I have just come from the audience. +Father General and Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariate +of State, but I came straight home to tell you. His Holiness was most +kind, and Father Ramoni was not a mite abashed, even in the presence +of the Pope. When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up and gave +him a seat. 'Tell me all about your wonderful people and your +wonderful work,' he said. And Father Ramoni told him of the thousands +he had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing of God, to do +so much. The Holy Father asked him every manner of question. He was +full of enthusiasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has done. He +is the greatest man in Rome to-day, is Ramoni. He will be honored by +the Holy See. The Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day for +our Community." The little priest paused for breath, then hastened on. +"Rome knows that our Father Ramoni has come back," he cried, "and Rome +has not forgotten ten years ago." + +"Was it ten years that Father Ramoni passed in South America?" a tall +novice asked Father Tomasso. + +"Ten years," said Father Tomasso. "He was the great preacher of Rome +when the old General"--he nodded toward the cloister corner where +Father Denfili prayed--"sent him away from Rome. No one knew why. His +fame was at its height. Men and women of all the city crowded the +church to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four years old. But +Father Denfili sent him away to Marqua, commanding the Superior of our +Order out there to send him to those far-off mountain people of whom +the papers were telling at that time. I did not know Father Romani +well. I was a novice at the time. But I knew that he did not want to +go from Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. Now, see what +has happened. He has converted over one-third of that people, and the +rest are only waiting for missionaries." + +"And the work is all Father Ramoni's?" the novice asked. + +"All." Father Tomasso drew him a little farther from the group that +still listened to the little priest who had come from the Vatican. +"Father Ramoni found that the people had many Christian traditions and +were almost white; but it was he who instilled the Faith in their +hearts. There must be thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now," he +continued proudly, "and sooner or later, all novices will have to go +out there. Father Ramoni has made a splendid Prefect-Apostolic. No +wonder they have summoned him to Rome for consultation. I have +heard"--he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoulder to where +Father Denfili sat on the bench by the pond--"that it is certain that +Marqua is to be made a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops. +There is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they are training some of +the natives to be catechists. I tell you, Brother Luigi, missionary +history has never chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni has +wrought." + +From behind them came the rising voice of the little priest, bubbling +into laughter. "And as I came through the Pincio all that I heard was +his name. I had to wait for a duchessa's carriage to pass. She was +telling an American woman of the times when Father Ramoni had preached +at San Carlo. 'His words would convert a Hindu,' she was saying. And +the Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to tell me that he had +heard that Father Ramoni will be one of the Cardinals of the next +Consistory. Is it not wonderful?" + +The murmur of their responses went across the garden to old Father +Denfili. Father Tomasso, crossing the path with the novice, suddenly +saw a strange look of pain on the old priest's face, and started +toward him just as the gate to the cloister garden swung back, +revealing a picture that held him waiting. Four men--a great Roman +prelate, the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and Father Pietro, +Ramoni's secretary--were coming into the garden. Of the four Father +Ramoni stood out in the center of the group as vividly as if a +searchlight were playing on his magnificent bigness. His deep black +eyes, set in a face whose strength had been emphasized by its exposure +to sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mood. His mouth, large, +expressive, the plastic mouth of the orator, was curving into a smile +as he gave heed to the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shook +his head as the great man, oblivious of their coming before a crowd of +intent watchers, continued the words he had been saying on Via Paoli. + +"And the Holy See is about to make your Marqua into a Province. Is it +not wonderful, Father Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift to +the people you converted? And yet to me it is more wonderful that you +wish to go back. Why do you not stay here? You, a Roman, would +advance." + +"Not now, Monsignore," the missionary answered quickly. They were +passing the group near the fountain, going toward the bench where +Father Denfili sat. Ramoni's secretary, a thin, serious-visaged priest +of about the same age as his Superior, with bald head and timid, +shrinking eyes, took with the greatest deference the cloak and hat +Father Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old General. +The prelate answered Ramoni. "But you are right, of course," he +admitted. "It is best that you return. The Church needs you there now. +But later on--_chi lo sa_? You are to preach Sunday afternoon at San +Carlo? I shall be there to hear you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah, +you do well here! '_Filius urbis et orbis_--son of the city and the +world.' It's a great title, Ramoni!" + +They had come in front of the bench where Father Denfili told his +beads. The prelate turned to the old General of San Ambrogio with +deference. "Is it not so, Father?" he asked. But Father Denfili raised +his sightless eyes as if he sought to focus them upon the group before +him. Father Ramoni, laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joy +congealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He turned away +angrily, then recovered himself in time. Father Denfili was no longer +on the bench beside the pond. He was groping his way back to the +chapel. + +It was a month before the Consistory met to nominate the new hierarchy +for Marqua. It had been expected that the first meeting would end in +decisive action and that, immediately afterward, the great missionary +of the Community of San Ambrogio would return with increased authority +and dignity to his charge. But something--one of those mysterious +"somethings" peculiar to Rome--had happened, and the nominations were +postponed. + +In the month that Father Ramoni remained in Rome he had tasted the +fruits of his old popular success. On his first Sunday at home he +preached in San Carlo as well as ever--better than ever. And the awed +crowd he looked down on at the end of his sermon took away from the +church the tidings of his greater power. From that time nearly every +moment was taken by the demands of people of position and authority, +who wished to make the most of him before he went back to Marqua. He +scarcely saw his brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he went +to the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no time to loiter in +the garden, and the story of the conversion of the people of Marqua +was left to the quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of his +Superior's great work, till Father Tomasso and Brother Luigi prayed to +be given the opportunity to be Ramoni's servants in the far-away land +of the western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister, +he did not avoid Father Denfili. The old blind priest seemed to meet +him everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where +he preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies. Once +Ramoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during a +conference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden +gave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, even +though Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw. + +On the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detained +in the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressed +his desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili on +his way to the reception-room. While Father Ramoni, summoning his +secretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of the +South American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped along +the wall till he reached the General's office. He had come to the door +when he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on the +white faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutely +at the letter the former held. He heard the General call Father +Tomasso. "Take this to Father Pietro, my son," he said. Then he +listened to the younger priest's retreating footsteps. + +Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of the +General's tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubled +excitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was just +leaving. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he was +returning to their case the photographs of Marqua. Tomasso laid the +letter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding his +visitor a gay good-bye, turned back. + +[Illustration: "I can't take it," he was sobbing, "it's a mistake, a +terrible mistake."] + +Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope. He +read it with puzzled wonder rising to his eyes. Before he came to its +end he was on his feet. + +"No! No!" he cried. "It is impossible. It is a mistake." + +Father Ramoni turned quickly. The man who had been his faithful +servant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him. "What is a +mistake, Pietro?" he asked, coming to the table. + +"The Consistory," Father Pietro stammered, "the Consistory has made a +mistake. They have done an impossible thing. They have mixed our +names. This letter to the General--this letter--" he pointed to the +document on the table "--says that I have been made Archbishop of +Marqua." + +Ramoni took the letter. As he read it he knew what Pietro had not +known. The news was genuine. The name signed at the letter's end +guaranteed that. Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of the +blow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain that +would stay. He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who +sat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands. + +"I can't take it," he was sobbing; "I am not able. It's a mistake, a +terrible mistake." + +Ramoni put his hand on the other man's head. "It is true, Pietro," he +said. "You are Archbishop of Marqua. May God bless you!" + +But he could say no more. Pietro was still weeping when Ramoni went +away, crossing the cloister on his way to his cell, where, with the +door closed behind him, he fought the battle of his soul. + + +II. + +In the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat looking dully at the +softened tones of the wall, trying to evolve some order of thought +from the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment had plunged +his mind. It was late in the night before the situation began to +outline itself dimly. + +His first thought was, curiously enough, not of himself directly, but +of the people out in Marqua who were anxiously looking for his return +as their leader, confident of his appointment to the new +Archbishopric. He could not face them as the servant of another man. +From the crowd afar his thoughts traveled back to the crowd on the +Pincio--the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. He would +go no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with that +cynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved for +his servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome ten +years before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he had +converted, Pietro, the Consistory--everything. For that black and +bitter night the Church, which he had loved and reverenced, looked to +him like the root of all injustice. The more he thought of the slight +that had been put upon him, the worse it became, till the thought +arose in him that he would leave the Community, leave Rome, leave it +all. After long hours, anger had full sway in the heart of Father +Ramoni. + +At midnight he heard the striking of the city's clocks through the +windows, the lattices of which he had forgotten to close. The sound of +the city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who had +returned with him to San Ambrogio from his first audience with the +Holy Father--"_Filius urbis et orbis_." How bitterly the city had +treated him! + +A knock sounded at his door. He walked to it and flung it open. His +anger had come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only a +hand at the door-casing, groping with a blind man's uncertainty. Then +he saw the old General. + +In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man. +Instantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, of +those following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of +the priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearful +was his anger as he held it back with the rein of years of +self-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling. + +"May I enter, my son?" he asked. + +"You may enter." + +The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him with +glowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him +he did not flinch. + +"You are disappointed, my son?" the old man asked with a gentleness +that Ramoni could not apprehend, "and you can not sleep?" + +Ramoni's anger swept the question aside. "Have you come here, Father +Denfili," he cried, "to find out how well you have finished the +persecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quite +consoled. It is finished to-night." His anger, rushing over the gates, +beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was +a passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when +the old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been +put upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of +this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the +old man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of +patience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke. + +"You did not pray, my son?" + +"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined. +I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel." + +"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God, +and God alone; even if there be a thousand present." + +"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you +think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was +not God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know +it." + +"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is +right for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was +consulted, and I advised Pietro." + +"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other. + +"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old +voice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever +before I must say it to you to-night." + +The old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find the +beads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid the +string across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see he +kept tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were +turned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could +see, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a +movement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may be +given a finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili was +looking where only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of +another. + +"Son of the city and the world," he said. "I heard Monsignore call you +that, and he was right. A son of the city and of the world you are; +but alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than +you have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have not +long to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you +to-night." Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "I +received you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you +better than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God +had given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew +before any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, +though I did not know what it was that you would do. I was a man with +little, but I could admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to lay +before Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make +_you_ my great work. That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua. +I am the Apostle of Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear +that I would be cheated of my reward." + +Ramoni turned to him. "Your reward? I do not understand." + +"My reward," the old man repeated. "I watched over you, I instructed +you, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking +you, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in your +soul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that +there was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what +the world had to offer you--the old, old conflict between the city +and the world. I always feared it. All unknown to you I watched the +fight, and I saw that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent you +to Marqua." + +The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that +streamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. "I am afraid, my son," +the voice came again, "that you never knew the city--well called the +Eternal--where with all the evil the world has put within its walls +the good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, +and you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no other +right to existence at all. There is only one royalty that may live in +Rome. We, who are of the true city, know that. + +"And you, too, might have been of the city. The power of saving +thousands was given to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one. +I had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. Only a saint +may live to be praised and save himself--in Rome. + +"When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as your +merit, your salvation. Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was +born. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if you could +make it? Alas, you can not! Then it will have to grow on Pietro's +pain. + +"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you. You want +to go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work.' You +think that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor of +the city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are +not yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have +forgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world an +apostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an +apostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?" + +The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. "What +would you take back to Marqua?" he demanded. "Nothing but your purple +and your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in the +midst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of +their sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you +might have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you, +for the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that you +may learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of a +people." + +Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man's +words died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in another +room. Once more the old man took up his speech. + +"They are Pietro's steps," he said. "All night long I have heard you +both. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthy +to bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted to +bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again +if he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in +loving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you were +leading to Him." + +The old man arose. He put out his hand to grope his way back to the +door. It touched Ramoni, sitting rigid. He did not stir. The hand +reached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind +man to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a word he followed the +other. When he had overtaken him he laid his hand gently on the blind +man's arm and led him back to his cell. + +When he came back the door of the chapel was open. Ramoni, going +within, found Pietro there, prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoni +knelt at the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not pray. He +only gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. And while he knelt the Great +Plan unfolded itself to him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who has +traveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, he +could see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. There +came back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, his +ceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant villages, his zeal, +his solicitude to save his superior for the more serious work of +preaching. Pietro had been jealous of the slightest infringement on +his right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Before God the +conquest of Marqua had been Pietro's first, since he it was who had +toiled and claimed no reward. + +A great peace suddenly mantled the troubled soul of Father Ramoni, and +with it a great love for the old General whose hand had struck him. He +thought of the painting hanging near where he knelt--"Moses Striking +the Rock." The features of Father Denfili merged into the features of +the Law Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the rock, barren and +unprofitable. He fell on his face, and then his prayer came: + +"Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if there be aught of living +water within, let me give one drop for thirsty souls yet ere I am +called." + +He could utter no other prayer. + +Morning found both master and servant, now servant and master, before +the altar where both were servants. + + +III. + +It was fifteen years later when the brethren of the little Community +of San Ambrogio gathered in their chapel to sing the requiem over +their founder and first General, Father Denfili, who died, old and +blind, after twenty years of retirement into obscurity. But there +were more than his brethren there. For all those years he had +occupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in the +chapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, the +brethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them many +distinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation that +his obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates, +priests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were those +who had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint. + +But there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity and +sanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning when +he said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of Father +Denfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward Via +Paoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altar +of the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that needed +all their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the City +and the World. + + + + +THE FLAMING CROSS + +I. + + +It was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose from +a table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator for +their hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightful +to all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, to +give the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days, +and keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was old +enough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's was +a fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or +society had grown half so precious for any one of these three men as +were the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had bound +to him. + +The difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked. +Thornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short, +fat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. His +stubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's had +found its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he had +always been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neither +of his friends liked many of his actions, nor the stories told of +him; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silently +sorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville and +Callovan waited and hoped for "old Thornton"; but the wait had been +long and the hope very much deferred. + +Callovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair of the Milesian spoke +for him as clearly as the blue-gray eye. He shaved clean and he looked +clean. An ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him to +almost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was ruddy and fresh. Two +years younger than Thornton, he yet looked younger by five. And +Callovan, like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs promised. + +Orville was tall and straight. The ghost of a black mustache was on +his lip. His hair was scanty, and was parted carefully. His dress +showed taste, but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well groomed +and particular, without obtrusiveness in any one of the points. He was +just a little taller than Callovan; but he was grayer and a great deal +more thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even for an intimate; but +the print was large, if the text was puzzling. He looked to be "in" +the world, but who could say if he were "of" it? + +All three of these friends were very rich. Thornton had made his money +within five years--a lucky mining strike, a quick sale, a move to the +city, speculation, politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-fire +story that the other friends never cared to hear the details of. +Callovan inherited his wealth from his hard-fisted old father, who had +died but a year before. Orville was the richest of the three. He had +always been rich. His father had died a month before he was born. His +mother paid for her only child with her life. Orville's guardian had, +as soon as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur's Preparatory School and +then in the College; but he was a careful and wise man, this guardian, +so, though plenty of money was allowed him, yet the college +authorities had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing boy and +youth in amounts that could neither spoil nor starve him. It was good +for Orville that the guardian had been thus wise and the college +authorities thus prudent. He himself was generous and kind-hearted; by +nature a spendthrift, but by training just a bit of a miser. He had +learned a little about values during these school and college days. + +"Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville," said the doorman, when the +three moved to leave the club. + +"Very unlike your careful Michael," remarked Callovan. + +Orville came at once to the defense of his exemplary chauffeur. "I +gave him permission to go to St. Mary's to-night for confession," he +said. "Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to confession every +Saturday night and is a weekly communicant. I can stand a little +tardiness once a week for the sake of having a man like Michael +around." + +"Good boy is Michael," put in Thornton. "I wish I could get just a +small dose of his piety. Candidly, I am awfully lonesome sometimes +without a little of it. + +A page came running up. "Telephone for you, Mr. Orville," he said; and +at almost the same moment the doorman called out: "Your car is here +now, sir." Orville went to the telephone booth, but returned in a +moment. + +"Lucky for us that we waited," he said. "It was Marion who called. She +is at the Congress, and she wants me to take her home. She came +down-town with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and that +worthless pup has gone off and left her. She knew that I was here +to-night, and 'phoned, hoping to catch me. We will pass around by the +hotel and take her back with us." + +When the friends came out, Michael was standing with his hand on the +knob of the big limousine's door. "I am sorry if I made you wait, +sir," he said. "I had a fainting spell in the church and could not get +away sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart attack; but I am all +right now." + +Orville answered kindly. "I am sorry you were ill, Michael, but we are +glad enough that you were late. That ill wind for you blew good to us, +for we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been on time we +would have missed her. Go around to the Congress first." + +The car glided down Michigan avenue to the hotel, where Marion was +already waiting in the ladies' lobby. She looked just what she was, +the pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. Tonight her cheeks +were flushed and her hand was very unsteady. Orville noticed both when +she entered the car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancee. He +knew that she was usually full of life and spirit; but this midnight +gaiety worried him, and all the more that he loved the girl sincerely. + +Marion talked fast and furiously, railing continually at her brother; +but she averted her face from Orville as much as possible and spoke to +Thornton. Orville said nothing after he had greeted her. + +The car sped on, passed the club again and down toward the bridge at +the foot of the avenue. Marion was scolding at Thornton as they +approached the bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staring +straight ahead, so only he saw Michael's hand make a quick movement +toward the controller, and another movement, at the same time, as if +his foot were trying to press on the brake; but both movements seemed +to fall short and Michael's head dropped on his breast. Alarmed, +Orville looked up. He had a swift glimpse of a flashing red light. A +chain snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from Thornton, and +a scream from Marion. Then, in an instant, he felt the great weight +falling, and a flood of cold water poured through the open window of +the car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of water against it +made this impossible. The car filled and the door moved. He was pushed +out. He thought of saving Marion; but all was dark around him. He +tried to call, but the water choked him. He could only think a prayer, +before he seemed to be falling asleep. Everything was fading away +before him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; so only +vaguely did he realize the tragedy that had fallen upon him. + + +II. + +When light and vision came back to Orville, he was standing up and +vaguely wondering why. Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side by +side. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All were changed; but +Orville could not understand just in what the change consisted. In +Thornton and Marion the change was not good to look at, and Orville +somehow felt that it was becoming more marked as he gazed. Michael was +almost transformed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on his +face. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville naturally smiled back at +them. Thornton was frowning, and Marion looked horrible in her +terror. Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced about him +and saw thousands of men and women, all smiling or frowning, like his +companions. Several seemed to be about to begin a journey and were +moving away from the groups, most of them alone. Some had burdens +strapped to their shoulders and bent under them as they walked. Those +who were not departing were preparing for departure; but Orville could +see no guides about. All the travelers appeared to understand where +they were to go. + +Orville watched the groups divide again and again, wondering still, +not knowing the reason for the division. Some took a road that led +upward to a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome road. Orville +could see men and women far above on that road, dragging themselves +along painfully. Another road led down into a valley; but Orville +could not see deep into that valley, because of a haze which hung over +it. He looked long at the road before he noticed letters on a rock +which rose up like a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that later +he would go over and read them. But first he wanted to ask questions. + +"Michael, what does all this mean?" Orville said; all the time +marveling that it was to his servant he turned for information. + +Michael still smiled, and answered: "It means, sir, that we are +dead." + +Orville was astonished that he felt neither shocked nor startled. +"Dead? I do not quite understand, Michael. You are not joking?" + +"No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over the bridge a minute ago. +Our bodies are in the river now, but we are here." + +"Where?" asked Orville. + +Michael answered, "That I do not know, sir, except that we are in The +Land of the Dead." + +"But you seem to know a great deal, Michael," said Orville. + +"Yes," answered Michael; "I died a minute before you, sir, so I came +earlier. I was dead on my seat when we struck the chain and broke it. +One learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can you see +anything at the top of that mountain?" + +Orville looked up and saw a bright light before him on the very summit +and seemingly at the end of the road. As he gazed it took the form of +a Flaming Cross. + +"I see a Cross on fire, Michael," he said. Michael answered simply: +"Thank God." + +"I can see a Flaming Cross, too," said Callovan, speaking for the +first time. "I can see it, and what is more, I am going up to it; let +us not delay an instant"; and Callovan began to gird his +strange-looking garment about him for the climb. + +Then Orville knew that he himself was drawn toward that Flaming Cross. +There was a something urging him on. His whole being was filled with +a desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared quickly for the +ascent. + +"Wait a moment, sir," said Michael. "Do the others see nothing on the +mountain?" + +Thornton and Marion, still frowning, were looking down into the haze +of the valley. They were paying no attention to their friends. + +"Come, let us go," said Thornton to the girl, as he pointed to the +road which led down into the valley. + +"No, no," said Michael, "not there. Look up at the mountain. What do +you see?" + +Both Marion and Thornton glanced upward. "I see nothing," said Marion. + +"I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant-looking," said Thornton. +"Come, Marion, let us go at once." + +Orville, alarmed, called out: "Marion, you will surely come with me." + +The frown on her face changed to a look of awful sadness, but she put +her hand into Thornton's while saying to Orville: "I can not go there +with you--not upward. I must enter the valley with him." She moved +away, her hand still in Thornton's. Orville watched them go, only +wondering why he had no regrets. + +"Michael," he said, "I loved her on earth. Why am I unmoved to see her +leave me?" + +[Illustration: "But when their feet touched the road, they turned and +looked their terror."] + +But Michael answered, "It is not strange in The Land of the Dead. +There are stranger partings here; but all of them are like +yours--tearless for those who see the Cross." + +Thornton and Marion by this time had entered the valley road and were +on the other side of the rock gateway. But when their feet touched the +road they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they recoiled and +struck viciously at each other. Then they parted. With the wide road +between them they went down into the valley and the haze together. + +Orville read the words on the rock gateway, for now they stood out so +that he could see plainly, and they were: "THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING." +"Michael," he said, "what does it mean?" + +Michael answered, "She could not see the Cross here, who would not see +it on earth. It repelled him, who so often had repelled it in life." + + +III. + +Neither Orville nor Callovan was at all moved by the tragedy each had +witnessed. Orville's love for Marion was as if it had never existed. +The friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slightest assert +itself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the overpowering sense of +another feeling--a feeling of victory for some Great Friend or +Cause--left the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men knew +that Thornton and Marion had passed out of their ken forever, and in +the future would be to them as if they had not been. All three made +haste to go toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. Then +upon Orville's shoulders he felt a heavy burden, but still heavier was +one which was bending Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight, +without a weight upon him. + +"It will be hard to climb to the Cross with these burdens, Michael," +said Orville. + +"Yes, sir, it will," said Michael, "but you must carry them. You +brought them here. They are the burdens of your wealth. They will +hamper you; but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be well." + +"Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches?" asked both Orville and +Callovan in the same breath. + +"They are your riches," replied Michael. "I have no burden, for I had +no riches. Poor was I on earth, and unhampered am I now for the climb +to the Cross. Look yonder." He pointed to a man standing at the fork +of the roads. His burden was weighing him to the earth. "He brought it +all with him, sir," continued Michael; "in life he gave nothing to +God. Now he must carry the burden up to the Cross, or leave it and go +the other road. He sees the Cross, too; but it will take ages for him +to reach it." + +The man had thrown down the burden and now started to climb without +it. But unseen hands lifted it back to his shoulders. Men and women +going to the other road beckoned him to throw it away again and come +with them; but he had seen the Cross and, keeping his eyes fixed upon +it, he crawled along with his burden upon him, inch by inch, up the +mountain. + +"In life he was good and faithful, but he did not understand that +riches were given him to use for a purpose and that he was not, +himself, the purpose," said Michael. "It was a miracle of grace that +he could see the Cross at all." + +"I knew that man in life," said Callovan. "But why is not my burden +heavier than his? I was richer by far." + +"You lightened it by more charity than he," said Michael, "but you did +not lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all that +you had, you would now be even as I am--free of all burden." + +"I wish I had known that," said Callovan. + +"But, alas! you did know," replied Michael. "We all knew these things. +We are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man +with the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on your +way, yet he has been dead now for a year." + +Callovan looked up and gasped: "My father!" + +"Yes; your father," said Michael. "You had more charity than he, and +when you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw the +Cross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith." + +"Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to his +side?" asked Callovan. + +"I think," replied Michael, "that you may; but you could have helped +him better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probably +may go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross, +and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain." + +They had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orville +could read the words which marked the mountain road: "THE ROAD OF PAIN +AND HOPE." + +"But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it," said Michael. "We +must leave you here, sir," he said to Callovan, turning to him. "You +have far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than my +master's, and then you must be lonely for a while." + +"But why must I be lonely?" asked Callovan. + +"For many reasons, sir," replied Michael. "You will know them all as +you go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few things +now. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin to +you. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimage +to the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to +enjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him alone. Then you have +few to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life did +not and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but the +only prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. One +priest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He +was a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at your +burial, and again, too, before the climb is over." + +"But, Michael," said Callovan, "I gave a great deal to many good +works. Will none of the gifts count for me?" + +"Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but," answered Michael, +"the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they were +to God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land of +Death. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer your +question." + +Callovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork of +the roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw +the Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on the +ground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountain +road, knowing that the burden must go with him. + +"I have seen that man before," said Orville. "They gave him a +reception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist--yet, look +at his burden." + +"Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road without +Ending," said Michael. "He has many amongst those who can hate for +eternity to hate him." + +Suddenly from the multitude of the dead came men and women, who looked +with hatred upon the old man, and surrounded him on every side and +menaced him with threatening fists. "Beast!" shouted one. "I saw the +Cross in life, when I was young. The unbelief your work taught denies +me the sight of it in death. I curse you!" + +"One year in the schools you founded," wailed another, "lost me my +God." + +"Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of the Cross, you +hypocrite?" cried another. "You have, in the name of a false science, +encouraged by your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You shall +not go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even though you might have to +climb till Judgment. You shall go with us." + +Screaming in terror, the old man was dragged away. They could hear his +voice in the distance, as the multitude drove him along The Road +without Ending. + +"Alas, I understand--now," sadly said Callovan. He gazed at his +friends with some of the pain of his coming solitude in his eyes. +"Good-bye. Shall we meet again?" + +Michael answered: "We shall meet again. Your pain may be very great; +but there is an end. He who sets his foot on this Road has a promise +which makes even pain a blessing." + +Callovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael climbed faster than +he. + +"Michael," said his master, "I am greatly favored. He was much better +in life than I, yet now he climbs alone." + +"You are not favored, sir," answered Michael. "Many pray for you, +because you loved the poor and sheltered and aided them. He has all +that is his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is yours. Do +not forget that we are marching toward the Sun of Justice." + +And so they went on, over The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville's feet +were weary and bleeding. His hands and knees were bruised by falls. +The adders stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain chilled him +and warm blasts oppressed him. He was one great pain; but within a +voice that was his own kept saying: "I go to the Cross, I go to the +Cross," and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for an +instant; but the thought brought him no longing to return. His breast +was swelling and seemed bursting with a wonderful great Love that made +him content with every tortured step. He even seemed to love the pain; +and he could not stop, nor could he rest for the Flaming Cross that +was drawing him on. He longed for it with a burning and intense +desire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devotion, and his whole +being cried out: "More pain, O Lord! more pain, if only I may sooner +reach the Cross!" + +But Michael tried to ease his master's burden. + +At last Orville said to him: "How many ages have passed since I died?" + +"You have been dead for ten minutes, sir," answered Michael. "The +minutes are as ages in the Land of Death until you reach the Cross, +and then the ages are as minutes." + + +IV. + +They kept toiling on, but had known no darkness along The Road of Pain +and Hope. Orville's hand sought Michael's, and it opened to draw him +closer. "Michael, my brother," he said, "may you tell me why there is +no night?" + +Michael smiled again when Orville called him "brother" and answered: +"Because, my master, on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair; +but it is always night along The Road without Ending." + +"Can you tell me, Michael, my brother," said Orville, "Why my eyes +suffer more keenly than all the rest?" + +"Because," said Michael, "your eyes, master, have offended most in +life, and so are now the weakest." + +"But my hands have offended, too," said Orville, "and behold, they are +already painless and cured of the bruises." + +"Your hands are beautiful and white, master," said Michael, "and were +little punished, because they were often outstretched in charity and +in good deeds." + +They had come to the brink of a Chasm which it seemed impossible to +cross, but they hoped, for they knew no despair. Multitudes of people +were before them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at the +other side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by unseen hands, and +carried across the Chasm. Some Power there was to bear them which +neither Orville nor Michael understood. Many, however, had waited +long, while some were taken quickly. Every hand was outstretched +toward the Cross, and it could easily be seen that waiting was a +torture worse than the bruises. + +"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "it is harder to suffer the wait than +the pain." + +"Yes, master," Michael replied, "but this is The Chasm of Neglected +Duties. We must stay until those we have fulfilled may come to bear us +across. The one who goes first will await the other on the opposite +side." + +"Alas, Michael," said Orville, "you must wait for me. I have few good +deeds and few duties well done." + +Even as he spoke, Michael's face began to shine and his eyes were +melting. Orville looked and saw a little child with great wings, and +beautiful beyond all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with the +deepest love and longing. Her voice was like the music of a harp, and +she spoke but one little word: + +"Daddy!" + +"Bride! My little Bride," whispered Michael. + +Orville knew her, Michael's first-born child, who had died in infancy. +He remembered her funeral. In pity for poor Michael, and feeling a +duty toward his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church and +to the grave, and had borne the expenses of her burial. His friends +wondered at such consideration for one so far beneath him. + +"Daddy," whispered the beautiful spirit, "I am to bring you across, +and master, too. God sent me. And, daddy, there are millions of +children who could bring their parents over quickly, if they had only +let them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who gave me life, +baptism and Heaven. Had I lived only a minute, it would have been +worth it. And, daddy, mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for you +both." + +Then the beautiful child touched and supported them, and lo! they were +wafted across The Chasm of Neglected Duties: Michael, because he +followed the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacrament to fulfil +the law of God; Orville, because he had shown mercy and recognition of +his servant's claim upon him. + +Without understanding why, Orville found himself repeating over and +over again the words: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain +mercy." Michael heard him and turned to say: "Yes, master, and +'Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God'! How well it +was for us that we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when we +came to The Chasm of Neglected Duties." + + +V. + +"Michael," said Orville, after a long and tiresome climb over a steep +part of the Road, "these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I have +toiled hard and have made but very little progress." + +"I know, master," said Michael, "but these rocks are the little faults +of our lives. Such rocks cover the mountain at this spot and are +constantly growing more numerous, yet one meets only one's own. The +Plain is not far away now. We are just reaching it, and these stones +are the only way to it." + +"What Plain is it, Michael?" asked Orville. + +"It is called, master," said Michael, "The Plain of Sinful Things. It +is between us and the foot of the Cross." + +"Is it hard to pass over, Michael?" again asked Orville. + +"It is very hard to most men, sir," said Michael. "No one knows how +hard who has not been on it; and yet when one has been over, one +remembers nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross is +reached." + +They stood now at the top of the stones, and on the edge of the vast +Plain, which lay white and scorching before them. Multitudes, as far +as the eye could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully along; +but none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The Flaming +Cross. + +Michael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orville +looked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice the +change in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. His +garments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a light +played, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrous +than dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone like +his visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael, +but voices which spoke to Michael only. + +"Michael, my brother," he said, "what is this; tell me?" and Orville's +voice sounded soft, as if he were praying. "Michael, who are you?" + +But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. "I am none other than your +servant, sir," he answered. "He who serves, reigns; for his glory is +in the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In life +you were a good master. You will need me until you reach your own +Master there." Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over the +blistering Plain. + +Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrow +and he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept struggling +forward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguish +did not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him, +but his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body +it felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was more +grateful than ever for it. + +"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?" he asked. + +"Yes, from the Cross, master," said Michael, "for this is The Plain of +Sinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice." + +Then like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael had +understood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His face +became more radiant before he spoke. + +"Master," he said, "my service is almost over. It was my prayer +constantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but on +earth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of the +Dead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me make my pilgrimage with +you. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm +of Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You did +not even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm of +Forgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which +you builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day after you +did it, filled up the Chasm before you came to it. Here on The Plain +of Sinful Things we would naturally separate, for I had never wilfully +sinned against God. But you needed me, and He let me stay. Master, +your burden has fallen from you." + +It was true. Orville was standing erect, with his eyes looking +straight at The Flaming Cross, which did not blind him. His burden had +vanished, and his face had almost the radiance of Michael's. + +"The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It comes toward you. Your +pilgrimage is ending." + +Orville could see It coming, gently and slowly. The Plain was now all +behind him, and yet it seemed as if he had scarcely gone over more +than a few yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was not sweet +enough for the music that filled the air. Like the falling of many +waters in the distance came the promise of coolness to Orville's +parched throat and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt his +heart, full of Love, break in his bosom; but with it broke the bond of +Sin, and he knew that he was dead, indeed, to earth, as out from the +stained cover came his purified soul. + +The Cross was close to him now. With his new spiritual vision he saw +that in form it was One like himself, but One with eyes that were soft +and mild and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched and +nail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a wounded side and +out from it a flood pouring which cooled the parched sands, so that +from them the flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form and +beauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The Flaming Cross fluttered +countless wings, and childish voices made melody, soft and harmonious +beyond all compare. All else that Orville ever knew vanished before +the glance of the Beloved; faces and forms dearest and nearest, old +haunts and older affections, all were melted into this One Great Love +that is Eternal. The outstretched arms were wrapped around them. The +blood from the wounded side washed all their pains from them. On their +foreheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and Michael had come +home. + + + + +THE VICAR-GENERAL + + +The Vicar-General was dead. With his long, white hair smoothed back, +he lay upon a silk pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon his +breast. He was clad in priestly vestments; and he looked, as he lay in +his coffin before the great altar with the candles burning on it, as +if he were just ready to arise and begin a new _"Introibo"_ in Heaven. +The bells of the church wherein the Vicar-General lay asleep had +called his people all the morning in a sad and solemn tolling. The +people had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They were gathered +about the bier of their pastor. Priests from far and near had chanted +the Office of the Dead; the Requiem Mass was over, and the venerable +chief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, stood in cope and mitre, to +give the last Absolution. + +[Illustration: "The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the +last absolution."] + +The Bishop had loved the Vicar-General--had loved him as a brother. +For was it not the Vicar-General who had bidden His Lordship welcome, +when he came from his distant parish to take up the cares of a +diocese. With all the timidity of a stranger, the Bishop had feared; +but the Vicar-General guided his steps safely and well. Now the +Bishop, gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered--and wept. In +the midst of the Absolution, his voice broke. Priests bit their lips, +as their eyes filled with hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in the +parochial school and their little charges, did not attempt to keep +back their sobs. For others than the Bishop loved the Vicar-General. + +There was one standing by the coffin, whom neither the Bishop, priests +nor people saw. It was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore his +priestly vestments. Was he not a priest forever? His arms were folded +and his face was troubled. He knew every one present; but none of them +knew that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the Bishop's face +and seemed to wonder at his tears. He was quite unmoved by the sorrow +around him, did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar-General +had cared much about the feelings of others toward him. His eyes +wandered over the great congregation and rested on the children, but +without tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike the +Vicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested on the priestly form +in the coffin, and the trouble of them increased. + +The Absolution was over and the coffin was closed when the +Vicar-General looked up again, and knew that Another Unseen besides +himself was present. The Other was looking over the coffin at the +Vicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that searched down deep and +with lashes that were very, very still. He wore a long robe of some +texture the Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered like +silk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted with tiny diamonds. +The hair of the Other was long, and fell, bright and beautiful, over +his shoulders. His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in a +gold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly in spite of his +beardless face. The Vicar-General noticed what seemed like wings +behind him; but they were not wings, only something which gave the +impression of them. The Vicar-General could not remove his eyes from +the Other. Gradually he knew that he was gazing at an Angel, and an +Angel who had intimate relation to himself. + +The body was borne out of the church. The Angel moved to follow, and +the Vicar-General knew that he also had to go. The day was perfect, +for it was in the full glory of the summer; but the Vicar-General +noticed little of either the day or the gathering. The Angel did not +speak, but his eyes said "come": and so the Vicar-General +followed--whither, he did not know. + +The Vicar-General was not sure that it was even a place to which the +Angel led him; but he felt with increasing trouble that he was to be +the center of some momentous event. There were people arriving, most +of whom the Vicar-General knew--men and women of his flock, to whom he +had ministered and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled at +the Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged themselves on one side. +The Silent Angel stood very close to the Vicar-General. As the people +came near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon him, as if +they were lifting him in the air. They shone very brightly, too, and +took on a new beauty. The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearing +them. + +The Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a word; yet the +Vicar-General understood at once, knew that he was to answer at a +stern trial, and that these were his witnesses--the souls of the +people to whom he ministered, to whom he had broken the Bread of Life. +How many there were! They gladdened the Vicar-General's heart. There +were his converts, the children he had baptized, his penitents, the +pure virgins whose vows he had consecrated to God, the youths whom his +example had won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar-General +counted them, and he could not think of a single one missing. + +On the other side, witnesses began to arrive and the Vicar-General's +look of trouble returned. He felt his priestly vestments becoming +heavy. Especially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was like +a heavy iron helmet crushed down over his shoulders. The cincture was +binding him very tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it. +The maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. The stole was +pulling at him, and the weight of the chasuble made him very faint. + +He knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. He had seen these few +before. They were his neglected spiritual children. He remembered each +and every case. One was a missed sick-call: his had been the fault. +Another was a man driven from the church by a harsh word spoken in +anger. The Vicar-General remembered the day when he referred to this +man in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew and leave. He did not +return. Another was a priest--his own assistant. The Vicar-General had +no patience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them his feelings had +turned to rancor against the man--and the assistant was lost. The +Vicar-General trembled; for these things he had passed by as either +justified by reason of the severity necessary to his office, or as +wiped out by his virtues--and he had many virtues. + +The Vicar-General's eyes sought those of the Silent Angel, and he lost +some of his fear, while the weight of his vestments became a little +lighter. But the Silent Angel's gaze caused the Vicar-General again to +look at the witnesses. Those against him were increasing. The faces of +the new-comers he did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protesting +that there must be some mistake, for the new-comers were red men, +brown men, yellow men and black men, besides white men whose faces +were altogether strange. He was sure none of these had ever been in +his parish. The new-comers were dressed in the garbs of every nation +under the sun. They all alike looked very sternly at the +Vicar-General, so that he could not bear their glances. Still he could +not understand how he had ever offended against them, nor could he +surmise why they should be witnesses to his hurt. + +The Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar-General; but the +troubled soul of the priest could find no enlightenment in his eyes. +All the while witnesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filled +him with a great terror. + +At last he saw a face amongst the strangers which he thought familiar, +and he began to understand. It was the face of a priest he had known, +who had been in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-General's +authority. On earth this priest had been one of the quiet kind, +without ambition except to serve in a very humble way. He had always +been in a parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had in his +manner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected its humility and its +poverty. The Vicar-General remembered that the priest had once come to +him as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was not +complaining, nevertheless he really needed help and counsel. He said +that his scattered flock was being lost for the want of things which +could not be supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar-General +what was needed. The Vicar-General remembered that he had agreed with +him; but had informed him very gently that it was the policy of the +diocese to let each parish maintain and support itself. The +Vicar-General had felt justified in refusing his aid, especially +since, at that time, he was collecting for a new organ for his own +church, one with three banks of keys--the old one had but two. The +Vicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of worry at the time +was not groundless; but while then he had felt vaguely that he was +wrong in his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes sought +all through his own witnesses, but they found no likelihood of a +testimony in his favor based on the purchase of that grand organ. Then +it all came to the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel, +that he had received on earth all the reward that was due to him for +it. + +The presence of the men of all colors and of strange garbs was still a +mystery to the Vicar-General; but at last he saw among them a bent old +priest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. At once the +Vicar-General recognized him and his heart sank. Too well he +remembered the poor missionary who had begged for assistance: money, a +letter, a recommendation--anything; and had faced the inflexible +official for half an hour during his pleading. The Vicar-General had +felt at that time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had come +to him, that there was so much to be done at home, absolutely nothing +could be sent out. There was the Orphanage which the Bishop was +building and they were just beginning to gather funds for a new +Cathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the Vicar-General's ruling. +The diocese had flourished and had grown strong. The Vicar-General had +always been its pride. He was humbled now under the gaze of the Silent +Angel, whose eyes told him wherein he had been at fault. He knew that +the fault was not in the building of the great and beautiful things, +which of themselves were good because they were for God's glory; but +rather was it in this: that he had shut out of his heart, for their +sakes, the cry of affliction and the call of pleading voices from the +near and far begging but for the crumbs which meant to them Faith here +and Life hereafter. + +Now, O God! there were the red men, the brown men, the yellow men and +the black men; not to speak of these white men whose faces were so +strange; and they were going to say something--something against him. +He could guess--could well guess what it was they would say. The +Vicar-General knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had come +into Eternity. He doubted if it ever could be made right, for he knew +now the value of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was it +too late? His vestments were as heavy as lead. + +Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked for his Judge; but +he could not see Him. He only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had +a book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its title. There was +a chalice on the cover, as if it spoke of priests, and under it he +read: + +THE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED. + +The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General saw that it had +but one page. Shining out from the page he read: + +"THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER." + +And under it: + +"GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS." + +Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the hope in the eyes of +the Silent Angel gave him hope, as he bowed his head before the +judgment. + + + + +THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA + + +Father Broidy rushed down the stone steps and ran toward the Bishop's +carriage which had just stopped at the curb. He flung open the door +before the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand extended +him, helped its owner out and with a beaming face led the Bishop to +the pretty and comfortable rectory. + +"Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop," he said as they entered the house, +"and sure the whole Deanery is here to back it up." + +The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs echoing the +greeting. The Bishop knew them all, and he was happy, for well was he +aware that every man meant what he said. No one really ever admired +the Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private reason of his +own for it that he never confided to anyone save his nearest crony. +They were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta--the +poorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless three years ago, +but now--well, there it is across the lot, that symphony in stone, +every line of its chaste gothic a "Te Deum" that even an agnostic +could understand and appreciate; every bit of carving the paragraph of +a sermon that passers-by, perforce, must hear. To-day it is to be +consecrated, the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy's Arch of +Triumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin. + +"I thought you had but sixteen families here," said the Bishop as he +watched the crowd stream into the church. + +"There were but eighteen, Bishop," the young priest answered, with a +happy smile that had considerable self-satisfaction in it. "There are +seventy-five now." + +"And how did it come about, my lad?" questioned the Bishop. + +"Mostly through my mission bringing back some of the 'ought-to-be's,' +but I suppose principally because my friend McDermott opened his +factory to Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was born one of +us he had somehow acquired a bitter hatred of the Church, and he never +employed Catholics until I brought him around." + +There was a shadow of a smile that had meaning to it on the Bishop's +face, as he patted the ardent young pastor on the arm, and said: + +"Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I suppose we must begin to +vest now. Is it not near ten o'clock?" + +Father Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment on his +face to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession started +toward the church. + +Shall I describe the beauty of it all?--the lights and flowers, the +swinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mystic +symbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession into +the sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in the +heart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. He +had watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chips +that had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful a +day to him, and never such a ceremony but one--three years ago in the +Seminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dear +me, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy, +that young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of the +congratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. It +was small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way back +to the rectory: + +"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surely +won his spurs to-day." + +But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face, +and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he +slapped the young pastor on the back and said: + +"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you, +but wait and listen." Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I was +talking to the Bishop about you." + +The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say? +But perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely have +heard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone said +that Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's and +went to keep house for the priest at Alta. + +Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub up +the wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for months +never passed by unnoticed. + +The Dean was toastmaster. + +"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers," he began, when he had +enforced silence with the handle of his fork, "it is my pleasure and +pride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent to +one of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he found +you all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never a +secret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant. +Factories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for +a dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around you +to-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? That +is Father Broidy's work and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are glad +of it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What have +we others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are not +jealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our young +friend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, though +completely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me +now call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always a +joy." + +When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stood +again with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instant +he did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in his +voice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which had +preceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like a +forerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, this +kindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when he spoke it was always +with a gentle dignity, and a depth of sympathy and feeling that +compelled attention. + +"It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers," he began, "to find so +many of you here to rejoice with our young friend and his devoted +people, and to thus encourage the growth of a priestly life which he +has so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success more than I. +No one more warmly than I, his Bishop, tenders congratulations. This +is truly a day the Lord has made--this day in Alta. It is a day of +joy and gladness for priest and people. Will you pardon an old man if +he stems the tide of mirth for an instant? He could not hope to stem +it for long. On such an occasion as this it would burst the barriers, +leaving what he would show you once more submerged beneath rippling +waters and silver-tipped waves of laughter. It seems wrong even to +think of the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the hulks of +the wrecked. But the bottom always has its treasure as well as its +tragedy. There are both a tragedy and a treasure in the story I will +tell you to-day." + +"You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor of Alta? Yes! Then let +me tell you a story that your generous priestly souls will treasure as +it deserves." + +The table was strangely silent. Not one of the guests had ever before +known the depth of sympathy in the old Bishop till now. Every chord in +the nature of each man vibrated to the touch of his words. + +[Illustration: "I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had +received."] + +"It was ten years ago," went on the Bishop--"ah, how years fly fast to +the old!--a friend of college days, a bishop in an Eastern State, +wrote me a long letter concerning a young convert he had just +ordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant and handsome, the +son of wealthy parents, who, however, now cast him off, giving him to +understand that he would receive nothing from them. The young man was +filled with zeal, and he begged the bishop to give him to some +missionary diocese wherein he could work in obscurity for the greater +glory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a man that the bishop +desired to attach him to his own household and was loath to lose him, +but the priest begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop asked me +to take him for a few years and give him actual contact with the +hardships of life in a pioneer state. Soon, he thought, the young man +would be willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in other +words, wanted to test him. I sadly needed priests, so when he came +with the oil still wet on his hands, I gave him a place--the worst I +had--I gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what it was then. The +story of Alta is full of sorrow. I told it to him, but he thanked me +and went to his charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I did +not see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and with his annual +report in my hand I asked him how he lived on the pittance which he +had received. He said that it took very little when one was careful +and that he lived well enough--but his coat was threadbare and his +shoes were sadly patched. There was a brightness in his eyes too, and +a flush on his cheek that I did not quite like. I asked him of his +work and he told me that he was hopeful--told me of the little repairs +he had made, of a soul won back, but in the conversation I actually +stole the sad tale of his poverty from him. Yet he made no complaint +and went back cheerfully to Alta. + +"The next month he came again, but this time he told me of the dire +need of aid, not for himself, but for his church. The people, he said, +were poor pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church they +were losing their grip on religion. The young people were falling away +very fast. All around were well ordered and beautiful sectarian +churches. He could see the effect, not visible to less interested eyes +but very plain to his. He feared that another generation would be lost +and he asked me if there was any possibility of securing temporary aid +such as the sects had for their building work. I had to tell him that +nothing could be done. I told him of the poverty of my own Diocese, +and that, while his was a poor place, there were others approaching +it. In my heart I knew there was something sadly lacking in our +national work for the Church, but I could do nothing myself. He wrote +to his own State for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except for +the few stipends I could give him and which he devoted to his work, it +was impossible to do anything. He was brave and never faltered though +the eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat was worn +through. A few days later I received a letter from his bishop asking +how he did and saying that he would appoint him to an excellent parish +if he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to Alta with a +little note of my own, congratulating him on his changed condition. He +returned the letter to me with a few lines saying: 'I can not go. If I +desert my people here it would be a sin. There are plenty at home for +the rich places but you have no one to send here. Please ask the +bishop to let me stay. I think it is God's will.' The day I received +that letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral say: 'How seedy +that young Belmond looks! for an Eastern man he is positively sloppy +in his dress. He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of his +calling. Surely such a man is not calculated to impress himself upon +our separated brethren.' And another chimed in: 'I wonder why he left +his own diocese?'" + +"I heard no more for two years except for the annual report, and now +and then a request for a dispensation. I did hear that he was teaching +the few children of the parish himself, and every little while I saw +an article in some of the papers, unsigned but suspiciously like his +style, and I suspected that he was earning a little money with his +pen. + +"One winter night, returning alone from a visitation of Vinta, the +fast train was stalled by a blizzard at the Alta station. I went out +on the platform to secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcely +closed the door when a boy rushed up to me and asked if I were a +Catholic priest. When I nodded he said: 'We have been trying to get a +priest all day, but the wires are down in the storm. Father Belmond +is sick and the doctor says he will die. He told me to look through +every train that came in. He was sure I would find some one.' Reaching +at once for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the Pastor. The +home was the lean-to vestry of the old log church. In one corner +Father Belmond lived; another was given over to the vestments and +linens. Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the priest was +tossing, moaning and delirious. Only the boy had attended him in his +sickness until the noon of that day when two good old women heard of +his condition and came. One of them was at his bedside when I entered. +When she saw my collar she lifted her hands in that peculiarly +Hibernian gesture that means so much, and said: + +"'Sure, God sent you here this night. He has been waiting since noon +to die.' + +"The sick priest opened his eyes that now had the brightness of death +in them and appeared to look through me. He seemed to be very far +away. But slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back--back from +the shadows; then at last he spoke: + +"'You, Bishop? Thank God!'" + +"He made his simple confession. I anointed him and brought him +Viaticum from the tabernacle in the church. Then the eyes went wild +again, and I saw when they opened and looked at me that he had already +turned around, and was again walking through the shadows of the Great +Valley that ends the Long Road. + +[Illustration: "Then I learned--old priest and bishop as I was--I +learned my lesson."] + +"Through the night we three, the old woman, the boy and myself, +watched him and listened to his wanderings. Then I learned--old priest +and bishop as I was--I learned my lesson. The lips that never spoke a +complaint were moved, but not by his will, to go over the story of two +terrible years. It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. He +wanted to do so much, but the black discouragement of everything +slowly killed his hopes. He saw the Faith going from his people. He +saw that they were ceasing to care. The town was then, as it is +to-day, McDermott's town, but McDermott had fallen away when his +riches came, and some terrible event, a quarrel with a former priest +who had attended Alta from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter. +He practically drove the pastor from his door. He closed his factory +to the priest's people and one by one they left. Only eighteen +families stayed. The dying priest counted them over in his dreams, and +sobbed as he told of the others who had gone. Then the bigotry that +McDermott's faith had kept concealed broke out under the encouragement +of McDermott's infidelity. The boys of the town flung insults at the +priest as he passed. The people gave little, and that grudgingly. I +could almost feel his pain as he told in his delirium how, day after +day, he had dragged his frail body to church and on the round of +duty. But every now and then, as if the words came naturally to bear +him up, he would say: + +"'It's for God's sake. I am nothing. It will all come in His own good +time.' + +"Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his work. He went over his +visit to me. How he had hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed to +the ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all meant to that +sensitive, saintly nature, I would have sold my ring and cross to give +him what he needed. But my words seemed to have broken him and he came +home to die. The night of his return he spent before the altar in his +log church, and, Saints of Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard his +poor, dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed my head on +the coverlet and cried as only a child can cry--and I was only a child +at that minute in spite of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offered +a supreme sacrifice--his life. I gleaned from his prayers that his +parents had done him the one favor of keeping up his insurance and +that he had made it over to his church. So he wanted to die at his +post and piteously begged God to take him. For his death he knew would +give Alta a church. He seemed penetrated with the idea that alive he +was useless, but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. When I +heard that same expression used so often to-day I lived over again the +whole story of that night in the little vestry. All this time he had +been picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, during the pauses, +to be holding the paten as if he were gathering up the minute +particles from the corporal. At last his hand found mine. He clung to +it, and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason in them. He +smiled, and murmured, 'It is all right, now, Bishop.' I heard a sob +back of me where the boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He was +trying to speak again, and I caught the words, 'God's sake--I am +nothing--His good time.' Then he was still, just as the morning sun +broke through the windows. + +"That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the resurrection of Alta. The +old woman told me how it happened. He was twenty-five miles away +attending one of his missions when the blizzard was at its height. +McDermott fell sick and a telegram was sent for the priest--the last +message before the wires came down. Father Belmond started to drive +through the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in reaching McDermott's +bedside and gave him the last Sacraments. He did not break down +himself until he returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours he +tossed in fever before they found him. + +"McDermott grew better. He sent for me when he heard I was in town. +The first question he asked was: 'Is he dead?' I told McDermott the +story just as I am telling you. 'God forgive me,' said the sick man, +'that priest died for me. When he came here I ordered him out of my +office, yet when they told him I was sick he drove through the storm +for my sake. He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself was +the noblest soul that Alta ever had.' + +"I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere bishop was talking to +McDermott, and I, His minister, was silent in His presence. 'Bishop,' +said McDermott, after long thought, 'I never really believed until +now; I'm sorry that it took a man's life to bring back the Faith of my +fathers. Send us a priest to Alta--one who can do things: one after +the stamp of the saint in the vestry. I'll be his friend and together +we will carry on the work he began. I'll see him through if God spares +me.' + +"Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did. + +"Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not re-echoed the praises +that have been showered upon you as much as perhaps I might have done, +because I reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of them. I +believed when I sent you here that you were of his stamp. You have +done your duty and you have done it well. I am not ungrateful and I +shall not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I firmly +believe that you, under like circumstances, would also have willingly +given your life for the resurrection of Alta." + + + + +THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL + + +Years ago there lived a man whose soul had died; and died as only a +soul may die, by the man's own deed. His body lived still for +debauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, but his soul was +stifled in a flood of sin. So the man lived his life with a dead soul. + +When the soul died the man's dreams changed. The fairy children of his +youth came no more to play with him and his visions were of lands bare +and desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; and sandy, dry +and arid plains instead of bright grass and flowers. But out of the +rocks shone fiery veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that dried +the plain reflected countless smaller suns of untouched diamonds. +Hither in dreams came often the man with the dead soul. + +The years passed and the man realized with his mortal eyes the full of +his dreams and touched mortal foot to the desert that now was all his +own. Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body cried "enough." +Then only he left, when his strength could dig no more. So he began to +live more evilly because of his new power of wealth; and his soul was +farther than ever from resurrection. + +Now it happened that the man with the dead soul soon found that he had +become a leper because of his sins, and so with all his gains was +driven from among men. He went back to the desert and watched the gold +veins in the rocks and the shining of the diamonds, all the time +hoping for more strength to dig. But while waiting, his musings turned +to hateful thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all good. So +he said: "I have been driven from among men because they love virtue, +henceforth I will hate it; because they loved God, henceforth I will +love only evil; because they use their belongings to work mercy, +henceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. I may not go to men, so +I will go to those who do men harm." + +So the man with the dead soul went to live among the beasts. He dwelt +for a long time in the forests and the most savage of the brutes were +his friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his cave. "How +livest thou here?" he asked. + +"From the offerings of the raven who brings me bread and the wild bees +who give it sweetness and the great beasts who clothe me," answered +the hermit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts because +they did good and were merciful. + +Out of the forest the North Wind met the man and tossed him upon its +wings and buffeted him and chilled him to the marrow. In vain he +asked for mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half frozen and sore +with blows the man gasped-- + +"'Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou givest nothing but evil." +So he went to dwell in the cave of the North Wind and the chill of the +pitiless cold was good to him on account of his dead soul. + +One day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his own desert, and the +North Wind went to meet them and a mighty battle took place in the +air; but the North Wind was the victor. White on the ground where the +chill had flung them lay the clouds in snow crystals; and the man +laughed his joy at the sight of the ruin--for he knew that the +rain-clouds would have greened his desert and made it beautiful. But +he heard the men who cultivated the land on which the snow had fallen +bless the North Wind that it had given their crops protection and +promised plenty to the fields of wheat. Then the man with the dead +soul cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the ocean. + +The waters bade him stay and daily he saw their work of evil. Down in +the depths dead men's bones whitened beside the wealth of treasure the +ocean had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years exulting in +destruction before he came to the surface to watch the storms and +laugh at the big waves eating the great ships. But there was only a +gentle breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels laden with +treasure and wealth passing from nation to nation. He saw the dolphins +play over the bosom of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride the +waves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns where all day long the +sun kept working, drawing moisture to the sky from the waters to +spread it, even over the man's barren desert, to make it bloom. + +Cursing again, the man with the dead soul left the waters and buried +himself beneath the earth, to hide in dark caves where neither light +nor sound could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave made it all +too bright. By its lantern he saw the hidden mysterious forces +working. Through tiny paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near the +surface that baby seeds might germinate, live and flourish for man's +benefit. He saw great forests draw their strength from the very Earth +into which he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its kindly +arms and so to change into carbon and remain stored away for man's +future comfort. Then the man with the dead soul could live in earth no +longer, and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to the +waters. + +"I will return to my desert," he said, "for there is more of evil in +the gold and diamonds than anywhere else." + +So he went back where the gold still shone from the veins in the +cliffs and the diamonds twinkled in the pitiless sun rays. But a +throne had been raised on a hillock and a king sat thereon with a +crown on his head and a trident in his hand. + +"Who art thou who invadest my desert?" asked the man. + +"Thy master," answered the king. + +"And who is my master?" asked the man. + +"The spirit of evil." + +"Then would I dwell with thee," said the man. + +"Thou hast served me well and thou art welcome," said the king. +"Behold!" + +He stretched forth the trident and demons peopled the desert. + +"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell with them, and without +torture, unless thy evil deeds be turned to good to torture me. Know +that thou hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil have +brought thee my favor. If thou hast been successful in reaping the +evil thou has sown, thou shalt be my friend. But know that for every +good thing that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips of +scorpions." + +So the man with the dead soul walked through rows of demons with whips +in their hands; but no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown his +evil well and the king did not frown on him. + +Then one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon his shoulders. +Pain-racked he looked at the king and saw that his face was twisted +with agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had +been turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fall +mercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, cried +out: + +"Tear aside the veil. Let him see." + +In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soul +saw all the Earth before him--and understood. A generation had passed +since he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. The +finger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from it +everywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poor +could worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked, +dazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever the +Finger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished, +the naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Before +him was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment and +multiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the +tortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungered +for his back. + +Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made him +open them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purified +and sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the "Miserere," +and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose. + +He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit +of penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes looked +once into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes +of the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and +evil--his own and his only son. + +Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and +behold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out +of the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked +at them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the +"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to +pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection. + + + + +THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR + + +I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the +capital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood, +though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists +whose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized +the glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of +paper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and I +really began to live only when some one representing the Great Nation +stamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throb +of being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me. + +I remember that at first I was confined in a prison, bound with others +by an elastic band which I longed to break that I might escape to the +welcoming hands of men who looked longingly at me through the bars. +But soon one secured me and I went out into a great, wide and very +beautiful world. + +Of the first months of my life I can remember but very little, only +that I was feverishly happy in seeing, and particularly in doing. I +was petted and admired and sought after. I went everywhere and did +everything. So great was my popularity that some even bartered their +peace of mind to obtain me, and others, forced to see me go, shed +tears at the parting. Some, unable to have me go to them otherwise, +actually stole me. But all the time I cared nothing, for I was living +and doing--making men smile and laugh when I was with them and weep +when I went away. It was all the same to me whether they laughed or +cried. I only loved the power that was in me to make them do it and I +believed that the power was without limit. + +I was not yet a year old when I began to lose my beauty. I noticed it +first when I fell into the hands of a man with long hair and pointed +beard, who frowned at me and said: "You poor, faded, dirty thing, to +think that I made you!" But I did not care. He had not made me. It was +the Great Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make even him +long for me. So I was happy. + +I was one year and a half old when I formed my first great partnership +with others of my kind, and it came about like this: I had been in the +possession of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in a most +unpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard a sharp voice ask for +me--nay, demand me, and couple the demand with a threat that my +guardian should lose her home were the demand refused. I was given +over, I hoped, to better quarters, but in this I was sadly +disappointed, for my new owner confined me in a strong but +ill-favored box where thousands like myself were growing mouldy and +wrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes we were released at +night to be carefully counted by candle-light, but that was all. Thus +we who were imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even then we +were not strong enough to free ourselves. One night the box was opened +with a snap and I saw the thin, pale face of my master looking down at +us. He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions and placed us +outside the box. + +"There's the money," he said, "as I told you. It's all yours. Are you +satisfied now?" I looked across the table at a young girl with a +white, set face that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer. + +"If you want it why don't you take it?" he snarled at her. "I can tell +you again that there is nothing else for you." + +The girl had something in her hand that I saw. I see more than most +men. The thing she had made a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. He +fell across the table and something red and warm went all over me. I +began to be unhappy, for I thought I saw that there was something in +the world that could not be bought. For him I cared nothing. + +It was strange that after my transfers I was at last used to pay the +judge who tried the girl. I was in the judge's pocket when he +sentenced her to death. He said: "May the Lord have mercy on your +soul." But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most men, +that he didn't believe in the Lord or in souls. He left the court to +spend me at a ----, but I think that I will not mention that shameful +change. There was nothing strange about my falling into the hangman as +part of his pay. I had been in worse hands in the interim. + +I saw her die. Not a word did she say about the man she killed, though +it might have saved her to tell of the mock marriage and the other +things I knew she could reveal. She thought it better to die, I +suppose, than be shamed. So she died--unbought. It made me still more +unhappy to think of it at all. The dark stain never left me, but I +cared nothing for that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted me, +was starving for what I could buy, but spurned me and died rather than +take me. There was something that had more power than I possessed. + +I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I had +yet made--my partnership with millions of others. I traveled long +distances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and so +produced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers, +steamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order to +enhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, +checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when I +returned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners were +nearly all with us one day when the master came in with a man and +pointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massive +head, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but he +never changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threw +us down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was more +unhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look that +he wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There was +another thing I could not buy. + +But a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of that +has never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honor +or his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom he +had stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. He +refused and the priest turned from him without saying the words of +absolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, and +croaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back into +him, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again till +he died. The priest came back and looked at him. + +"Poor fool!" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: "YOU +sent him to Hell." + +Ah! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not glad +enough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he was +my master long before I mastered him. + +His dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed. +I was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirty +floor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I was +torn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent me +back to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists work +again on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist +could give me new life. + +Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew he +was good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me. +"God has blessed me," he said, "with riches and knowledge and +strength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the rest +shall be spent in His service." Then we were sent out, thousands of +us, returning again and again, splitting into great and small parties, +but all coming and going hither and thither on errands of mercy. + +Now I felt my love of doing return. Never did I now see a tear that I +did not dry. Never did I hear a sigh that I did not change to a laugh; +never a wound that I did not heal; never a pain that I did not soothe; +nor a care I did not lighten. Where the sick were found, I visited +them; where the poor were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains and +in the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the Chalice of Salvation. +To the dying I sped the Minister of Pardon. Into the darkness and the +shadow of death I sent the Light of love and hope and truth, till, +rich in the deeds of mercy I did in my master's name, I felt the call +to another deathbed--his own. I saw my companions flying from the +bounds of the great earth to answer the call. They knew he needed them +now with the rich interest of good deeds they had won for him. Fast +they came and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. The enemy +who hated him pointed to them in derision. "Gold buys hell, not +heaven," he laughed, but we stood around the bed and the enemy could +not pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his command, began +to pray and the prayer was like sweetest music echoing against the +very vault of heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones of +harps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and louder till all seemed +changed to a thousand organs, with every stop attuned to the praying. +They were the voices of the children from parts and regions where we +had lifted the Cross. One by one they joined the mighty music till on +the wings of the melody the master was borne aloft, higher and higher +as new voices coming added of their strength. I watched till he was +far above and still rising to heights beyond the ken of dreams. + +An Angel touched me. + +"Be thou clean," he said, "and go, I charge thee, to thy work. Thy +master is not dead, but only begins his joy. While time is, thou shalt +work for him and thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thou +shalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, the children may +gather and the song find new strength and new volume to lift him +nearer and nearer the Throne." + +So I am happy that I have learned my real power; that I can do what +alone is worth doing--for His sake. + + + + +LE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE[1] + + +This is the story that the old sailor from Tadousac told me when the +waves were leaping, snapping, and frothing at us from the St. +Lawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the anger of the waters +rose the wail of the Braillard de la Magdeleine. + +"You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. I think of my own baby +when I hear him, always the same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby! + +"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkens +everything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little mother +lived--_pauvre mere_. She was only a child, innocent and good and +happy, when he came--the great lord, the _Grand Seigneur_, from +France--came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac. + +"She loved him, loved him and forgot--forgot her father and +mother--forgot the good name they gave her--forgot the innocence that +made her beautiful--forgot the pure Mother and the good God, for him +and his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Cure had not +blessed them in the church. + +"Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries out there in the +storm. The _Grand Seigneur_ killed the little baby, killed it to save +her from disgrace, killed it without baptism, and it cries and wails +out there, _pauvre enfant_. + +"The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. She has been here for +more than two hundred years listening to her baby cry. Poor mother. +The baby calls her and she wanders through the storm to find him. But +she never sees, only hears him cry for her--and God. Till the great +Day of Judgment will the baby cry, and she--_pauvre mere_--will pay +the price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart and hungry +mother arms, that will not be filled. You hear the soft wind from the +shore battle with the great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she, +_pauvre mere_--perhaps. + +"The _Grand Seigneur_? He never comes, for he died unrepentant and +unpardoned. The lost do not return to Earth and Hope. He never comes. +Only the mother comes--the mother who weeps and seeks, and hears the +baby cry." + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a sound +like wailing whenever there is a great storm. The people call it Le +Braillard de la Magdeleine and countless tales are told concerning +it. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS + + +From Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint John the rock-bound +Saguenay rolls through a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty, +and alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore tales. Ghosts of the +past people its shores, phantom canoes float down the river of +mystery; and disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the dreamer's +call; traders, trappers, soldiers, women strong in love and valor, +heroes in the long ago, and saintly missionaries offering up mortal +life that savages may know the Christian's God. + +Beauty, mysticism and music--music in all things, from the silver flow +of the river to the soft notes of the native's tongue, and dominating +all, simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted patriotism. + +Such was French Canada, the adopted country of Deschamps the trapper, +a native of old France, who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec was +yet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or hardship, +gradually grew to be a _grand monsieur_ in the estimation of the +people about him. He loved his country well and, when war came, sent +forth three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. Many were the +tears the patriot shed, because age forbade the privilege of +shouldering musket and marching himself. + +Weary months dragged by before tidings came. Quebec had fallen. The +gallant Montcalm had passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero's +rest, and two of the trapper's sons lay dead on the Plains of Abraham. +They had died bravely, as Deschamps hoped they would, with their faces +to the foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old father at +Tadousac. + +And Pascal, the best beloved? + +Pascal was--a traitor! + +The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter and +gallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hope +lightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth nor +heaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on +his woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despair +in the words: "France! Pascal! Traitor!" + +Years passed and the trapper lived on, a senile wreck, ever brooding +on defeat, then breaking into fierce invective. Misery had isolated +him from his kind; the _grand monsieur_ was the recluse of Tadousac. +One day he disappeared from his lonely cabin and no one knew whither +he had gone. + +Treason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son. Wealth and +honors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noble +family, who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous deed, +kindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang for +the birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion of +Pascal Deschamps. + +"Summon our friends," said the happy father. "A son to the house of +Deschamps! Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir of +wealth, power and position." + +So heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, but +bore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac. + +"The curse is lifted!" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal's +treason. "A child at last! The good God has forgiven him." + +From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised +his treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with +them came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly +clad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever: +"France! Pascal! Traitor!" + +Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician +beauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper's +descendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his +nurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor. + +"A sturdy fellow, my friends," said his laughing sponsor. "An English +Deschamps." + +"An English Deschamps!" cried the English guests, pleased with the +conceit. "Long may his line endure." + +"A traitor Deschamps!" said a voice instinct with wrath. "Unhappy man, +your taint is in him!" + +The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the +unbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the +dignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen +lips to speak the word: "Father." + +"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the +burden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I have +guarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would +have transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of +Deschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery has +destroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose +names are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country. +Ah, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps you +say! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, I +shall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity. +You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone." + +And snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passed +from the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers +were roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper had +driven holes through the sides of every one but his own. + +With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, through +the rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a +harbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed, +climbed to the summit of the rock, and laying down the boy, kindled a +fire of driftwood. "I may see his face," he muttered. "The last of my +line! The English cross shows! The strain shows! I must wash it out! +Hush, my little one, thy grandfather guards thee; soon shalt thou +sleep in my arms--arms that cradled thy father, and shall hold thee +forever. I, who was ever gentle, who spared the birds and beasts, and +sorrowed with the trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby--will +save thee from thy father. Here where the wind speaks of freedom; here +where the river even in its anger, as to-night, whispers peace; here +where Deschamps worked and hoped; here where Deschamps sorrowed and +mourned; here, little one, shall we rest together. Child, for you and +me life means disgrace; the better part is death and freedom." + +A leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, fluttering white like +angels' wings, dipped to the surface and disappeared. The race of +Deschamps was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its pall, the +storm its requiem. + + + + +THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE + + +The three men who sat together around the little library table of the +Rectory felt the unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead silence. +The big burly one, with his feet planted straight on the carpet, +passed his tongue over his lips and nervously folded and opened the +paper in his hands. The tall young chap with creased trousers kept +crossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither of them looked at the young +priest, who ten minutes before had welcomed them with a merry laugh +and had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of his little +bookish den, as cordially as if they were the best friends he had in +the world. Now the young priest looked old and the half-minute had +done it. He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor and +architect arrived; but he was a care-filled man now, as he sat and +nervously passed a handkerchief over his forehead, to find it wet, +though the room was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting an +actual physical barrier when he spoke to the big man. + +"I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray" (it had been "John" ten minutes +before), "I do not quite see," he repeated anxiously, "how I can owe +you so much. You know our contract was plain, and the bid that I +accepted from you was six thousand eight hundred dollars." + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur," answered McMurray with shifting +embarrassment, "but you know these other things were extras, sur." + +"But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMurray," urged the priest. + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations was +sandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specifications +called fur. It cost in labor, sur,"--McMurray did not seem to be +enjoying his explanation--"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then you +know, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes--to go +ahead, sur." + +"But you did not tell me it would cost more," urged the priest. + +"No, sur; no, sur; I didn't, sur; but a child would know that. Now +look here at the plans." + +"Just a minute, Mr. McMurray," broke in the architect, suavely. "Let +me explain. You see, Father, I was your representative both as +architect and superintendent of the building. I know that McMurray's +bill of extras is right. I passed on them and everything he did was +necessary. There are extras, you know, on every building." + +"But," said the priest, "I told you I had only eight thousand dollars, +and that the furnishings would take all over the amount called for by +the contract. You can not expect to get blood out of a stone. Here now +you say I must pay a thousand dollars more; but where can I get the +money?" + +"Well, Father," said the architect, "I don't think you will have to +worry much about that. You priests always manage somehow, and you got +off cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand dollars, if it's +worth a cent; and McMurray did you a clean, nice job. Now one thousand +dollars won't hurt you; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will get +the money in a year or so." + +"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can do +anything else," answered the priest. "This thing has sort of stunned +me. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had never +started that building at all." + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur," said McMurray quickly. "You can have a month, +sur. I am not a hard man, sur; but I've got to pay off me workers, you +know. But take the month, sur, take it--take it." + +McMurray looked longingly at the door. + +All three had arisen; but the priest's step had lost its spring as he +escorted his visitors out. + +Both of them were silent for the distance of a block away from the +Rectory, and then McMurray said: + +"Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like ----." + +"I do too," broke in the architect. "I know what you were going to +say. He took it pretty hard." + +Not another word was spoken by either of them until the hotel was +reached, and they had drowned the recollection of the young face, with +the look of age upon it, in four drinks at the bar. + +When the priest, with a slight look of relief, closed the door upon +his visitors and bolted it after them, he had perhaps seen a little +humor in the situation; but the bolting of the door was the only sign +of it. His face was still grave when he stood, silent and stunned, +staring at the bill on the table. + +"The good Lord help me," he prayed. "One thousand dollars and the +Bishop coming in two weeks! What can I say to him? What can I do?" + +He pulled out a well thumbed letter from his pocket and read it to +himself, though he knew every word by heart. + + "DEAR FATHER RYAN,--I am pleased at your success, especially + that you built the church, as I told you to, without debt. + The congregation is too poor for any such burden. I will be + there for the dedication on the 26th. + + "And by the way. You may get ready for that change I spoke + of. I am as good as my word, and will not delay about + promoting you. The parish of Lansville is vacant. In a month + you may consider yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I + will look around to select one of the young men to take + your place and begin the work of building a house. God bless + you. + + "Sincerely yours in Christ, + + THOMAS, _Bishop of Tolma_. + +"All these years," whispered the young priest, "all these years, I +have waited for that place. I meant to have a home and mother with me, +and at least enough to live on after my ten years of sacrifice; but +one thousand dollars spoils it all. How can I raise it? I can not do +it before the 26th and the Bishop will ask for my report. How can I +tell him after that letter?" + +He dropped the letter over the contractor's bill and sat down, with +discouragement written on every line of his face. He was trying to +think out the hardest problem of his life. + +The town wherein Father Ryan had built his church had been for years +on the down-grade, so far as religion was concerned. There were in it +forty indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. They had just +enough religion left in them to desire a little more, and they had a +certain pride left, too, in their Faith. + +Father Ryan builded on that pride. It was a long and arduous work he +had faced. But after ten years he succeeded in erecting the little +church. His warnings to the architect had gone without heed; and he +found himself plunged into what was for him an enormous debt, just at +the time when promotion was assured. + +All night long his problem was before him, and in the morning it was +prompt to rise up and confront him. + +After breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered it himself, to find +two visitors on the steps. One was a very venerable looking old +priest, who had a kindly way about him and who laid his grip very +tenderly on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. His +companion looked vastly different as he flung a little satchel into +the corner, and with a voice as big and hearty as his body informed +his host that both had come to stay over Sunday. + +"Barry and I have been off for two weeks and we got tired of it," said +Father Fanning, the big man. "First vacation in ten years for both of +us, but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over his school, +and I got worrying over Barry, so there you are." + +"But why didn't both of you go home?" asked Father Ryan. + +"Home! confound it, that's the trouble. I would give anything to go on +the other ten miles and get off the train at my little burg, and so +would Barry, for that matter; but we were both warned to stay away +until Wednesday--reception and all that sort of thing. So now we are +going to stay here." + +"That's all right," said Father Ryan. "I am glad to have you, but this +is Saturday and to-morrow is Sunday, and--" + +"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It is +no use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He +won't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to work +on his vacation, would you?" + +"Well, if you won't, you won't," replied Father Ryan, "but you will +say the late Mass, anyhow? You'll have to do something for your +board." + +"All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass in private, and you +say the first, yourself. Then you can preach as short and as well as +you can, which is not saying much for you." + +"Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sunday," interrupted +Father Ryan, "I won't lack for a subject." + +Father Ryan had a great weakness for the Seminary, which was entitled +to an annual collection in the entire Diocese. He had studied there +for six years and, since his ordination, not one of his old professors +had been changed. Then he knew his obligations to the Seminary; he was +one of those who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning was +obliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to change his mind +regarding his friend's ability to preach well. Father Ryan's discourse +was an appeal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater. + +He closed it very effectively: "I owe the Seminary, my dear friends," +he said, "about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I +may ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that is +upon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owe +the Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfully +carrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is for +that Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping to +train priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On the +Seminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, the +future of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in a +selfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving +your little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking of +your children and your children's children, and the future of +religion, not only in this community but all over our State, and even +in the Nation, you will be generous--even lavish, in your gifts. This +is a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to build +our church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but I +would rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitled +by the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the average +amount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took a +cent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you put +into this collection shall be sent to the Bishop for the Seminary; to +help him educate worthy priests for our Diocese." + +After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher. + +"I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan," he said, "that I never looked at +things in such a light before. That was a great appeal you made. My +collection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home to +take it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermon +that I can remember." + +Father Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since his +two friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now that +the sermon was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was weighing +upon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some of +the people. + +A stranger brushed past him--a big, bluff, hearty looking man, all +bone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud. There was a +two-horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger started for +it; but turned back on seeing the priest. + +"I am a stranger here, Father," he said. "I have just come down from +the mountains, where I have been prospecting. I have to drive over to +Caanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no trains here on +Sunday. I hadn't been to Mass for three months, for we have no place +to go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me to +drop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it _was_ a good +sermon. That was a great appeal you made." + +Father Ryan could only murmur, "Thank you. You are not staying very +long with us?" + +"No, I can't stay, Father. I have to get to New York and report on +what I found. I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, and +have driven twenty miles this morning. I don't belong around here at +all. I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and you +are the nearest priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection." + +The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan's hand. By this time they +both had reached the livery rig. A quick "Good-bye" from the visitor, +and a "God bless you" from Father Ryan, ended the conversation. + +The priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house. +When he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast +at the table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which he +found difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic comments +of his friend on Father Ryan's sermon. + +"We were talking about you, Ryan," he said. "And there is no need of +telling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing I +would like to ask. What's wrong with you since we came?" + +"Why, nothing," said Father Ryan. "Haven't I treated you better than +you deserve?" + +"That is all right, that is all right," interrupted his big neighbor, +"but there _is_ something wrong. You were worried at first. Then you +dropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you came +out of the sanctuary. You were at it when we came in and you are at it +now. Come, Ryan, let us know what it is. If it is money, well--" + +Father Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: "Surely, it is +not the new church, is it?" + +The young pastor sat down in a chair at the table and looked at his +friends, before he spoke. "Well, I never could keep a secret," he +said. "Therefore, I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor of +anybody, and must always be seeking a counselor for myself." + +"I always hate a man who can keep a secret," said Father Fanning. "I +always believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you +have to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobody +ever is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep a +secret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it." + +"Well, it is about the church," said Father Ryan. + +And he told his story. + +"Well, of all the strange characters I ever met," said Father Fanning, +"you certainly are the worst, Ryan. Here you are in a box about that +thousand dollars and yet this morning you gave away your own share of +the collection, besides booming the Seminary. Why man, the Seminary +ought not ask anything from you, in your present condition. But there +is no use trying to pound sense into you. What are you going to do +about this? It is too much money for Barry and myself to take care of. +Bless your heart, I don't think he has fifty dollars to his name and I +wouldn't like to tell you the state of my finances. We have to think +out some way. Maybe Barry can see the Bishop." + +"Well, we'll have to stop thinking about it," said Father Ryan. "I +might just as well settle down where I am. I certainly will not get +very much of a promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big man, +covered with mud, in the church?" + +"No," said Father Fanning, "I did not notice him. Who was he? What +about him?" + +"He was a stranger," said Father Ryan, "and was very pleasant. He is a +prospector from New York. He has been up in the mountains and away +from church for the last three months. He must have found something up +there, because he is going on to New York to meet his backers; at +least, that is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over to +Caanan to-day to catch the fast train." + +"I wonder if he put anything in the collection?" said Father Fanning. + +"No, he did not," answered the pastor, "but he gave it to me afterward +and told me to put it in. By the way, here it is." + +He pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it flat on the table. +The three men gasped for breath. It was a thousand dollars. + +Father Fanning was the first to find words. "Great Scott, Ryan," he +said, "you ought to go out and thank God on your knees before the +altar. Here is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be a +millionaire." + +Father Ryan's face was all smiles. "Yes," he said, "it is the end of +my trouble. I never dreamed it would come to an end so easily. Thanks +be to God for it." + +The little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have no +comment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed at +the good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. But +he was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke. + +"What did you say you preached on to-day, Father Ryan?" + +"Why," broke in Fanning, "he preached on the Seminary. Didn't I tell +you! And a good sermon--" + +"Yes, I preached on the Seminary," said Father Ryan. + +"But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you pledged every dollar +that came into the collection to the Seminary." + +"Why, surely," said Father Ryan, "but this did not come in through the +collection." + +"Yes," persisted Father Barry, "but did you not say that the strange +man told you to put it into the collection?" + +"Why--yes--yes, he did say something like that." + +"Well, then," urged Father Barry, "is it not a question to be debated +as to whether or not you can do anything else with the money?" + +"Oh, confound it all, Barry," cried Father Fanning. "You are a +rigorist. You don't understand this case. Now there's no use bringing +your old syllogisms into this business. This man is in a hole. He has +got to get out of it. What difference is it if I put my money in one +pocket or in the other pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. The +thousand dollar note was given to the Church, and the most necessary +thing now is to pay the debt on that part of it that's here. Why the +Seminary doesn't need it. The old Procurator would drop dead if he got +a thousand dollars from this parish." + +"Well, so far as I can see," said Father Barry, "what you say does not +change matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar--and every cent +for that matter--in that collection to the Seminary. This money forms +part of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men would +argue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was given +for a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it for +any other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply will +have to make restitution later on to the Seminary. + +"That's an awful way of looking at things," said Father Fanning. +"Confound it, I am glad I don't have to go to you for direction. Why, +its getting worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this money +would be only too glad to have it go to pay off the debt. What does he +know about the Seminary? He was attending the little church out here, +and whatever good he got from his visit came through Father Ryan and +his people. He is under obligation to them first. Can't you see that +it does not make any difference, after all. It is the same thing." + +"No, it is not the same thing," said Father Barry. "Perhaps we are too +much tempted to believe that gifts of this kind might be +interchangeable. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at home, and +that means that sometimes we unconsciously are full of zeal for our +own glory. Look it up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a +killjoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do a +lot of sorrowful thinking afterward." + +It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the +discussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was not +a theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted. + +When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: "Well, I +guess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, +yourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I can +testify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, and +that is that I have learned more theology out of this three-day +discussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothing +like a fight to keep a fellow in training." + +His friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to his desk and wrote this +letter to his Bishop: + + YOUR LORDSHIP--I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary + collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. You may be surprised at + the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note + handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate + the Seminary on getting it. + + "The church is ready for dedication as your Lordship + arranged. + + "Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the train." + +Then Father Ryan went to bed. He did not expect to sleep very much +that night; but in spite of his worry, and to his own great surprise, +he had the most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priesthood. + +The church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe of face, abrupt in +manner, but if the truth were known, kindly at heart, finished his +work before he asked to see the books of the parish. + +Father Ryan was alone with his Lordship when the time for that ordeal +came. He handed the books to the Bishop and laid a financial statement +before him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then read it +through. The frown was still on his face as he looked up at the young +priest before him. + +"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me, +Father Ryan," he said. "You wrote me that the church was finished +without debt." + +"I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the letter. I had the money +on hand to pay the exact amount of the contract. The architect and the +builder came to me later and informed me that there had been extras, +of which I knew nothing, amounting to one thousand dollars. I am one +thousand dollars behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not my +fault, except that perhaps I should have known more about the tactics +of the men I was dealing with. I will have to raise the money some +way; and, of course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me to +Lansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I could. I will know +more about building next time." + +The Bishop had no word to say. Though the frown appeared pretty well +fixed upon his face, it did not seem quite natural. There was a +twinkle in his eye that only an expert on bishops could perceive. + +"But you sent me one thousand dollars more than I could have expected +only this week, for the Seminary," he said. That surely indicates that +you have some people here who might help you out of your dilemma." + +"I am sorry, your Lordship," said Father Ryan, "but it does not +indicate that at all. I have no rich people. All of my people have +done the best they could for the new church. I will have to give them +a rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The man who gave +the thousand dollar bill was a stranger--a miner. I do not know him at +all. He did not even give his name, but said the money was for the +collection. I could not find any authority for keeping it for the +church here, though, to be candid, I wanted to do it. That is all." + +The Bishop still kept his eye on him. "Of course you know that your +appointment to Lansville was conditional." + +"I understand that, your Lordship," said Father Etan. "You have no +obligation to me at all in that regard." + +"Will you kindly step to the door and ask my Chancellor to come in?" + +When the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to him: "Have you the +letter I received from Mr. Wilcox?" + +The Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, who unfolded it and, +taking another glance at the dejected young pastor, read it to him. It +was very much to the point. + + "DEAR BISHOP,--You may or may not know me, but I knew you + when you were pastor of St. Alexis in my native town. The + fact is, you baptized me. I would not even have known where + you were, had it not been for a mistake I made this morning. + I came down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ashford. + When I was going away I gave the young priest a thousand + dollar note. If you recognize my name, you will understand + that it was not too much for me to give, for though I am a + stingy sort of fellow, the Lord has blessed me with + considerable wealth. I remember saying to the young priest + that I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I + remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it out that he + would be sending the collection to you. + + "Now, I don't like to disappoint you, dear Bishop, but I did + not intend that money to go to the Seminary, but to the + pastor for the little parish. Later on, when developments + start in the mountains, and they will start when I get back + to New York, I may need that young priest to come up and + take care of my men; so I want the money to go to his + church, which, from what my driver told me coming over, + needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, for I + expect to be around your section of the country a great deal + in the future. + + + "Respectfully yours, + + "PAUL WILCOX." + +Through tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all the sternness go out of +the Bishop's face. + +"Mr. Wilcox," said his Lordship, "is a millionaire many times over. He +is one of the largest mine operators in the world. He likes to do +things of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father Ryan; but I +think, if I were you, I would stay here. When Wilcox says things are +going to move, they usually do. Think it over and take your choice. +Here is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a good thing, Father, +to praise people; especially those I have to govern, so I am not going +to praise you for what you have done. It was right, and it was your +duty. I appreciate it." + + + + +THE OCCASION + + +Mr. O'Brien of No. 32 Chestnut street had his entire family with him, +as he hurried to the eight o'clock Mass. Mrs. O'Brien was already +tired, though she had gone only a block from the house; for Elenora, +who always was tardy, had to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had come +down stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his hair which was +right above his forehead, but the back section, which the mirror did +not show, was tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. O'Brien's +part to make the children presentable; and hurry plus effort was not +good for--well, for folks who do not weigh as little as they did when +they were younger. + +Dr. Reilly met the O'Briens at the corner. + +"Hello," he called, "it's the whole family, bedad. What brings ye all +to the 'eight o'clock'?" + +Mr. O'Brien answered his family doctor only when the children were +left behind where they could not hear: "It's Father Collins' turn to +preach at the High Mass, Doc," he explained. + +"Sure, it is," said the Doctor. "Faith, I forgot that. I was going to +High Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure, +the poor man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God is +neither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?" + +"He is the finest priest in the city," said Mr. O'Brien, looking back +to see if his regiment was following, "and the worst preacher. I can't +sit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he gets +before the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down, +trying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up +and say it for him." + +"Well, O 'Brien, I believe you could say it, judging from the way you +lecture us at the council meetings. And that brings me to the business +I had when I ran off to see you. Couldn't you let the Missis take care +of the children at this Mass? McGarvey wants to talk over something +with us. He's sick and can't get out. We'd both go to the 'nine +o'clock' and that will miss the sermon, too." + +Mr. O'Brien nodded his head complacently. They had reached the front +of the church, and whom should they meet but Father Collins hurrying +out from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the street. + +"Good morning, Father," cried the children in chorus, just as they did +when one of the priests visited their room in the parochial school. +The two men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins returned +the salute. He crossed the street quickly and ran up stairs to his +own room in the rectory, but did not notice that O'Brien and the +doctor went past the church. + +Be it known that Father Collins was the third assistant. He had been +ordained one year. The first assistant, who was still fasting, with +the obligation of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in Father +Collins' favorite chair, when the owner of it entered. + +"Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house," the first +assistant called. "Come in, man, and be at home. I couldn't sleep, so +I had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but," he had caught +the expression on his friend's face, "what is the matter?" + +"Oh, nothing much, nothing much," replied Father Collins, "only I see +the whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o'clock Mass. The +O'Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You know, they always go +to High Mass." + +"Which," remarked Father Grady, "is no compliment either to my +singing, or your Eminence's preaching, or to both." + +"Oh, your singing is all right," assured Father Collins. + +"Well," said Father Grady, "I accept the correction. I am a modest +man, but I must acknowledge that I can sing--at least, relatively +speaking, for I haven't very much to compete against. However, if it +is not my singing, then it must be your preaching." + +"It is, it is," answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness in +his voice. "Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in the +Seminary. You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I work +hard. I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript is +finished I know it by heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Look +at it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong with it." + +Father Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while Father +Collins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it. In +truth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top, +until the manuscript had been laid down. + +"My dear Collins, you are right," said Father Grady. "It is a good +sermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutely +nothing wrong with it." + +"But," urged Father Collins, "I shall spoil it." + +"Well," said his friend, "candor compels me to acknowledge that you +probably shall. I don't know why. Can't you raise your voice? Can't +you have courage? The people won't bite you. You can talk well enough +to the school children. You can talk well enough to me. Why can't you +stand up and be natural? Just be yourself and talk to them as you talk +to us. That is the whole secret." + +"It is my nervousness, Grady," said Father Collins. "I am afraid the +minute I enter the church to preach. When I open my mouth, I lose my +voice out of fear. That is what it is--fear. I am simply an arrant +coward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it." + +"Now, look here," said his companion earnestly, "you are not a coward. +You can preach. It is in you, and it will come out, yet. I call this +sermon nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace up now, +the occasion will come to loosen your tongue. It surely will." + +"This is the worst day I have had," groaned poor Father Collins. "I am +shaking like a leaf, already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor just +this once. You preach so easily. You can get up a sermon in half an +hour. You have nothing to do until half past ten. Now, let me go out +and make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o'clock +Mass. Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words to +them. You preach at High Mass." + +"Well, I ought not to do it," said Father Grady, thoughtfully, "for if +I do such things, it may spoil you. You ought not to give way, +but--you are white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it this +time, so I had better look over something." + +Father Collins was overjoyed. He could not help it. He went to the +church to prepare for the Mass and prompt to the minute he was in the +sanctuary. + +The Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the first Gospel, when the +Sacristan came to the priest's side and whispered a message. He was +plainly excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the congregation. +Father Collins leaned over to hear what he had to say. + +"Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the church basement now, +right under your feet. The firemen are working on it, but can't put it +out. We have stopped people from coming in to stampede the others. The +galleries are filled with the children, and we have to get them out, +first. If there is a rush the children will be killed at the bottom of +the gallery stairs, where they meet the people from the body of the +church out in that vestibule. The chief sent me to you to tell you to +go on preaching and hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes. +The firemen will get the little ones out without noise or fuss, if you +can keep the attention of the people. I'll whisper 'all right' to you +when they are gone. Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It is +the only chance you have to save those children in this ramshackle old +building, so you preach for all you are worth and don't let the people +look up at the galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owe +their lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort." + +The Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the priest thought of +the galleries emptying into the little vestibule and meeting a rush of +the people from the church. + +Father Collins took off his chasuble and maniple and placed them upon +the altar. He wondered at his own coolness. He advanced to the front +of the altar platform, opening his book; but he closed it again +coolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every corner of the +building, which he could not believe was his own, he began. + +"On second thought, my friends," he said, "I will not read the Epistle +or the Gospel to-day. I have a few words to say to you, though a +sermon is not expected at this Mass." + +In a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O'Brien groaned softly. They had +been caught by the dreaded sermon. + +Father Collins announced his text. The congregation was surprised that +it was to have a sermon instead of the usual reading, but it was more +surprised at the change in Father Collins; so much, indeed, that it +was almost breathless. The priest glanced up at the gallery, quickly, +and saw that the children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had ten +minutes to fill in. The people below could see only the front rows of +the gallery, which in this church, built in the old style, ran on +three sides. So Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he had +prepared for the High Mass, but which he could not deliver. The +beauty of it had been plain to Father Grady when he read it; but it +was plainer to the enraptured congregation which sat listening to +every syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O'Brien attempted to sleep. +In fact there were no sleepers at all, for upright in the pews sat +every man and woman, hanging on the preacher's words. + +In the midst of his discourse Father Collins detected the smell of +smoke and thought that all was lost. But he made another effort. His +voice rose higher and his words thundered over the heads of the +astonished people, who were so rapt that they could not even ask +themselves what had wrought the miracle. If they smelled the smoke, +they gave no sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held them +in the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins took another glance at +the gallery. The front row would go in a moment. Above all, the people +must not be distracted now. Something must be done to hold their +attention when the noise of the moving of that front row would fall +upon their ears. In two minutes all would be well. That two minutes +were the greatest of the priest's life. Into them centered every bit +of intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he possessed. He rapidly +skipped part of his sermon and came to the burst of appeal, with which +he was to close. The people could see him tremble in every limb. His +face was as white as his surplice. His eyes were wide open and +shining as if he were deeply moved by his own pleadings. He quickly +descended the steps of the altar and advanced to the railing. The +congregation did not dare to take its eyes away from him. The noise of +the departing children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of the +man had been transferred to his listeners. A whispered 'all right' +reached the priest from the lips of the Sacristan behind, and Father +Collins stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with which he +began his discourse. It was a soft, musical voice, that people till +now did not know he possessed. + +"My friends," he said, "keep your seats for a moment. Those in the +front pews will go out quietly now. Let one pew empty at a time. Do +not crowd. There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken out +below, and we want to take every precaution for safety." + +"Stop," he thundered, and his voice went up again. "You, who are +leaving from the center of the church, remain in your seats. Do not +start a rush. Do not worry about the children, they are all out. Look +at the galleries. They are empty. The children were cool. Do not let +the little ones shame you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance." + +With voice and gesture, he directed the movement of the people, and +then, the church emptied, he looked toward the vestry door. The +Sacristan was there. + +"Hurry, Father," he called, tearing off his cassock. "The floor here +may give way any moment. Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament. +Hurry!" + +They were out before the floor fell and the flames burst into the big +church, which, poor old relic of the days of wood, went down into the +ashes of destruction. + +Mr. O'Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home with Dr. Reilly, but +neither of them had much to say. Both paused at the corner where their +ways parted. + +Then Mr. O'Brien spoke: "What did you think of the sermon, Doc?" + +"I think," said the doctor, deliberately, "that though it cost us the +price of a new church, 'twas well worth it." + + + + +THE YANKEE TRAMP + + +They were old cronies, M. le Cure de St. Eustace and M. le Cure de +Ste. Agatha, though the priestly calling seemed all they had in +common. The first was small of stature, thin of face, looking like a +mediaeval, though he was a modern, saint; the other tall, well filled +out like an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the nearest +approach to a scoffer in the two parishes, ever went so far as to call +the Cure of Ste. Agatha by such an undeserved name, since the good, +fat priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all the country +knew but never mentioned. They loved him too much to mention his +faults. He was good to the sick and faithful to their interests, +though--"_Il etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme_." +Besides, the Cure of St. Eustace was _too_ generous. Every beggar got +a meal from him and some of them money, till he spoiled the whole +tribe of them and they became so bold--well there was serious talk of +protesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his charities. + +The garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest place on earth for both +the cronies after Vespers had been sung in their parishes on Sunday +afternoons, and the three miles covered from the Presbytery of Ste. +Agatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. On a fine day it was +delightful to sit under the great trees and see the flowers and chat +and smoke, with just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing out +of Margot's kingdom. It was a standing rule that this meal was to be +taken together on Sunday and the visit prolonged far into the +night--until old Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and carried +his master off about half-past ten. _"Grand Dieu. Quelle +dissipation!"_ Only on this night did either one stay up after nine. + +What experiences were told these Sunday nights! Big and authoritative +were the words of M. le Cure de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending were +his comments and the accounts of his week's doings. And his friend's? +_Bien_, they were not much, but "they made him a little pleasure to +narrate"--what he would tell of them. + +This night they were talking of beggars, a new phase of the old +question. They had only beggars in Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. A +few pennies would suffice for them, and when they got old there were +always the good Sisters of the Poor to care for them. There were no +tramps. + +"This fellow was different, _mon ami_," the Cure de St. Eustace was +saying, "he would almost bother you yourself with all your experience. +He came from over the line--from the States, and he had a remarkable +story." + +"_Bien oui_, they all have," broke in his friend, "but I send them to +Marie and she feeds them--nothing more. They can not trap me with any +of their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. I am hard +of heart about such things, and very sensible." + +"Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the time till dinner. I +found the man seated on the gallery in front. He spoke only English. +When I came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely for a +Yankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no right to say that, for the +Yankees are as the _bon Dieu_ made them and they are too busy to be +polite. + +"'You are the priest?' he asked me. + +"'Yes, Monsieur, I am.' + +"'You speak English?' + +"'Enough to understand. What is it?' + +"'I am not a tramp, Father,'--he looked very weary and sad--'and it is +not money; though I am very hungry. You will give me something? +Thanks, but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can help--very +much.' + +"I gave him a seat and he dropped into it. + +"'Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I am just out of +prison. I was discharged yesterday in New York and I lost no time in +coming here. This is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago with +my chum. We were burglars and we were running away after a big +operation in New York. We had stolen $8,000 in money and valuables, +and we had it all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quiet +village till the storm would blow over. Among the valuables was a +strange ring. I had never seen anything like it and my chum wanted it +for himself, but we were afraid and took it to one of your +jewelers--right down the street to the left--Nadeau was his name--to +have it altered a little and made safe to wear. That little jeweler +suspected us. I saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed the +constable of the ring matter. We were watched and then we saw that it +would be better to go. We feared that the New York police would learn +of us, so we took the stuff out three miles in the country one dark +night and buried it. I know the spot, for it is near the old school +where the road turns for Sherbrooke. Then we went West, to Michigan. +We broke into a store there and we were arrested, but New York heard +of the capture and the Michigan authorities gave us up. We were tried +and a lawyer defended us by the Judge's order. He got us off with ten +years in Sing Sing. I have been there till yesterday, as I told you. +My chum? Well, that brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend to +break down. He is dead. He died well. A priest converted him, and my +chum repented of his life and begged me to change mine when I got out. +I am going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I'll never forget +his death. He called me and said: 'Bunky, that loot is worrying me. +The priest says that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs can +be found. If they can not it must be spent in works of charity. +Promise me that you will go to St. Eustace and get it, Bunky, and give +it back. Promise!' + +"Then he broke down, _mon ami_, and I fear that I cried just a little +too. It was sad, for he was a great strong man. + +"When he could, he looked up and continued: 'Well, Father, I am here +to do it. I want your help. May I have it?' + +"I told him I would do what I could. He wanted me to take the money +and give it to the owner. He would tell me his name. I was glad to aid +the poor man who was so repentant. + +"'All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable man to go with me +to-night. I can find the place,' he said. + +"I offered to send the sexton with him and let him have the pick and +shovel from the cemetery. I gave him food and thanked God as I watched +him eat, that grace was working in his heart again. + +"'I will wait for the man at seven to-night, Father,' he said when he +was leaving. 'Let him meet me with the horse and buggy just outside of +the town. If there is danger I will not see him, and he can return. I +will take the pick and shovel now, and bring the stuff to you in a +valise by 10 o'clock. Wait up for me.' + +"He left and the sexton went to the road at seven, but did not see +him. At 10 o'clock I heard him coming. It was very dark and he knocked +sharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door and he thrust a +valise into my hand. It was heavy. + +"'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when I will bring the key. +The valise is locked. Give me something that I may buy a night's +lodging and I will come back at seven.' + +"I gave him the first note in my purse and he hurried away. + +"Now I fear, _mon ami_, that I never quite overcame my childish +curiosity, for I felt a burning desire to see all that treasure, +especially the strange ring. I must root out that fault before I die +or my purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where I had a good +chisel, and I am sorry to confess that I opened the valise just a very +little to see the heap of precious things. There was an old cigar-box +and something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel down till I +opened the box. There was no treasure in it at all, but just a lot of +iron-shavings. I felt that I had been fooled and I broke the valise +open. The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of old +coupling-pins from the railroad. I was disgusted with this sinner, +this thief. But it was droll--it was droll--and I could scarcely +sleep with laughing at the whole farce. I know that was sinful. I +should have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee tramp." + +[Illustration: "Mon Dieu! It was mine."] + +"And the valise? What did you do with it?" asked the hard-hearted Cure +of Ste. Agatha, who must have felt sorry that the friend could be so +easily duped. "What did you do with the valise?" + +"I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me and I couldn't +understand why. It was so good--almost new. I felt that the sight of +it would make me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I wanted +to forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to the good Sisters at the +Hospital, to use when they must travel to Sherbrooke." + +The Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He plainly wanted to speak but +choked back twice. Then he rose and looked at his friend with a face +as red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took two steps, came +back, and spoke rapidly. "Do you think the Sisters will bring it back, +the valise? _Mon Dieu_! It was mine." + +Ten miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles from Ste. Agatha a +Yankee tramp was hurrying toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He had +the money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket keeping company +with one note from the purse of the generous Cure of St. Eustace and +one of a much larger denomination, from the wise but hard-hearted +Cure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps. + +And this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of St. Eustace saw it: +that some gloomy and worried millionaires are lost to the States, to +make a few irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their wits, and +whose sins even are amusing. One must not blame them overmuch. + +As to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no opinions on the matter at +all, for the Sisters gave him back his new valise. + + + + +HOW FATHER TOM CONNOLLY BEGAN TO BE A SAINT + + +If you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like him, because--well, +just because Father Tom Connolly was one of the kind whom everybody +liked. He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he was +big, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the _soggarth aroon_ +kind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get into +difficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you to +talk it all over with. But Father Tom had a large parish, in a +good-sized country town, to look after; and so, while you thought that +you might monopolize all of his sympathy in your bit of possible +trouble, he had hundreds whose troubles had already materialized, and +was waiting for yours with a wealth of experience which would only +make his smile deeper and his grasp heartier when the task of +consoling you came to his door and heart. + +Now, there lived in the same town as Father Tom another priest of +quite a different make. He, too, had a Christian name. It was Peter; +but no one ever called him Father _Peter_. Every one addressed him as +Father _Ilwin_. Somehow this designation alone fitted him. It was not +that this other priest was unkind--not at all--but it was just that in +Father Tom's town he did not quite fit. + +Father Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to build a new church, and +that on a slice of Father Tom's territory, which the Bishop lopped off +to form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He had no rich brogue on +his tongue to charm you into looking at his coat in expectation +of seeing his big heart burst out to welcome you. He was +thoughtful-looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his new +church building grew very slowly. + +I have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the life +of me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which the +villain--but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this +story has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day follows +night--for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare--that +when Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and just +as naturally--God help us--there was enough of human nature in Father +Tom to say, "I told you so" to himself, and to have him pity Father +Ilwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings more +than a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of his +people of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, "He meant well, good +lad," they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father Tom; but when +Father Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lips +tightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip his +heart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! and +human nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have to +give up. Of course, people _did_ say that Father Ilwin was ungracious +and unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I have +a tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the only +obstacle to his success was the _one_ that people never _could_ see, +and that the _obstacle himself_ was never _likely_ to see. + +But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom +believed in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. +So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a +friendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no +homes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every +little curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that +was enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the +same terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in +building the church across the river. The people understood. + +It had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse--not _too_ +large, but large enough--might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he +had "built his church by hard scraping, and that is how churches +should be built." Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on this +account. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me +to criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as a +father; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and +worn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seem +to sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there were +open murmurs that "the people had built one church and should not be +asked now to build another"; or "what was good enough for Father Tom +was good enough for anyone"; or "the Bishop should have consulted _us_ +before he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish." In the +other part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none +would think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father +Ilwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you +wonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from "the Rev. +Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen," to help in the +erection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it +and went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the +plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby? + +[Illustration: "Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, +where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, +and cried like a baby."] + +It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was +again much to his credit with the people. "Sure, _he_ never takes a +vacation at all," they said. But at last a call came that he could not +refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a +monastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see +a sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the +Southwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not--I do not know, and +I do not judge--that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to +the monastery that, "as the weather is warm, the father who comes to +take my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon." +It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside. +He could preach a little himself, and he knew it. + +It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom's +dying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the +train at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But he +soon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in a +buggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of +clerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its +occupant. + +"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?" + +"I am," said the priest in surprise. + +"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me." + +Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction. + +"You--you are a clergyman?" he stammered. + +"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a +Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians." + +If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no +more was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the +Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no +time. + +"Patrick," said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?" + +"Yes, Tom, he is." + +"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no +warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side." + +"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to +how I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite +right. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show +her." + +"How did _one_ stay?" + +"She didn't _stay_. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by a +priest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this +town for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I would +not have sent even for you, Tom, only _she_ made me." + +Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a +long minute. Then he took his brother's hand and said in his old boy +language: "Paddy, lad, tell me all about it--how you fell away. Maybe +there was something of an excuse for it." + +"I thought there was," said the dying man, "but now all seems +different. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic +settlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churches +built, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get +me, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. It +was a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; and +later a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and we +got together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in the +bank--one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got a +thousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringing +twelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back and +wait. Without church or priest, the children went to the +Sunday-schools and--I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift +until this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholics +together and converted my best--my baby girl--Kathleen. She was named +after mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars this +time, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help.' So +he went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to +help at all. They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad to +give something; but the priests said, 'No.' They thought helping was a +mistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred +dollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended the +struggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan went +away. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away.' My boy went to a +college his mother liked--and you saw him. The others--except +Kathleen--are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bear +before the judgment seat, but Tom--Tom, you don't know the struggle it +cost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight." + +A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand +which she took as she sat beside him. + +"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. She +sits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know it +won't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle where +there is a church and a chance to profit by it." + +Father Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later. + +He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephew +accompanied them to the train and said with unction: + +"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you," and Father Tom groaned down +to his heart of hearts. + +Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrived +home, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she saw +him and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said: + +"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another." + +"Yes, indeed, we do," cried the child. "Why, uncle, it was Father +_Peter_ who converted me." + +Father Tom heard, but did not say a word. + +It was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserable +little room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table still +reposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heard +outside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He had +profited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrived +at his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones. + +"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest and +Christian should--but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't. +Ilwin, _we_ can build that church and _we will_. Here are a thousand +dollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collection +for you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going about +with ye. I think I know where we can get some more." + +Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint. + + + + +THE UNBROKEN SEAL + + +The priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner of +the road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud +Run, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. He +was coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to +administer the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had +shot down the night before. + +Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest +while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate +alone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in the +rear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was glad +enough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in +his way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his very +best friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if he +had no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed +town. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caught +a few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster, +with that peculiar nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickened +his steps even more for it. + +"Company--oppressors of the poor--traitors"; even these few words, +which followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade. + +The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash +of glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw +that Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a +shawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from +the crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position +in front of the livery stable. + +A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the +street, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of them +saluted. "Bad business, Father," he said. "Will the lieutenant live?" + +"I am afraid he will not," answered the priest. + +"They will surely burn down the company's buildings," said the +soldier. "God! There they go now." And the soldier hurried on. + +Later the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded him +of blood, and he shuddered. + +His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper. + +"I can not go out much now," he said to her. "I am a Pole. What could +a Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or the +Italians whose language he can not speak?" + +He wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with his +servant? + +"Slevski," she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me +on the street this morning." + +"Yes," said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried to +speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these +men are his property now." + +"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday," said the old housekeeper. +"Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the +soldiers." + +"Never mind, Judith," said the priest, "at heart they are good people, +and this will pass away. The women fear God." + +"They fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski +always." + +The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which +could wait and does not grow old. + +After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of +the burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be +useless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to +the dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots? + +A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The +priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's +wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was +English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her +three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited +for her to speak. + +"Tell me," she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a +confession may ever be revealed by the priest?" + +"It is true," he answered. + +"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged. + +"Even if he were to die." + +The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on: + +"May he even not betray it by an action?" + +"Not even by an action." + +"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety. + +"Even then." + +"I wish to confess," she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneel +afterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must do +it quickly." + +"It will take only a minute if we go to the church," he answered. "It +is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, +unless in case of illness." + +"Then let us go," she said, "and hurry." + +They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the +confessional. Later she told all that had happened. + +"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession of +late?" + +"Three years ago," and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It was +before I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to +you. Listen now, for there isn't very much time." He bent his head and +said: "I am listening." + +She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. I +heard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I +could not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working +against the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a +sick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had +to warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--without a +prayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I +can say." + +"It is very simple," said the priest. "I need not go." + +"Then they will know that I told you," she answered breathlessly. Her +eyes showed her fright. + +"You are right," said the priest. "I fear that it would violate the +Seal if I refused to go." + +"Yes," she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, and +he--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused to +call you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I +am not ready to die--and he would kill me." + +"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care +of me," said the priest. "Finish your confession." + +In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and +his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and he +knew that the woman had been followed. + +He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide +open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back +to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and +finished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his +chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an +envelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm, +but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above +his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before +it. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and +whispering: + +"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity +on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You." + +Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did +not go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but had +the priest not seen him outside the church? + +The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath +of air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as +to what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the +altar, awaited his call. + +It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an +hour to summon him. + +"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is +for his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying." + +The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but +Kendis had left. + +The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his +favorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked at +it, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christ +gazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest's +eyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened the +door, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the street +his walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step of +a man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something. + +The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was +that night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them dragged +a heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another +sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary. + +Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was +sprung. + + + + +MAC OF THE ISLAND + + +When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving +me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space +upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen +minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only +outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives +call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that +stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his +rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, +made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer. + +We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It +was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; +but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and +cod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the +Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac. + +We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the +country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and +always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep +and kept bright green by the moisture. + +"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the +buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in +which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and +the bluer waters were blended. + +"Yes, I do," replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I +were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close +my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell +of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at +that," he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see +how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields. +Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed +through it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One +is called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a +funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them +by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever +set foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?" + +"Yes, yes," I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and--" But Mac +turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a +buggy. + +"Good morning, Doctor," he called. The doctor bowed with what looked +like gracious condescension. + +Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I +must love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way, +that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a +college in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very +important part of Island life." + +"But I do not think, Mac," I suggested, "that he was quite as +fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be." + +"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer," said Mac quickly. "In +fact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec +McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know that +Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this +Island--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's +farm. But say, Bruce," and Mac turned to me very quickly, "what +brought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit. +Now, own up." He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and +looked me in the face. "Surely," he went on, "you would not have +thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times." + +"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came," I answered, +"but you guess well, for this time I was sent." + +Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent? +Good! I am glad. Now, out with it." + +"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a +chance to get you." + +"Get me?" Mac grew grave again. + +"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old +Chalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than +the best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come, +and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you. +You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this." And I +waved my hand toward the bay. + +Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the +interview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the +conversation abruptly. + +"Look over there, Bruce," and he pointed with his whip toward the +distance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman +of Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around +here. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the +Interior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning +next. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the +Island itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'" + +"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac," I answered, not quite seeing why +he had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know _you_." + +"No," he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. It +would frighten them off. It would require explanations. What +difference if I have six letters after my name? To these people, +worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any +more." + +"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you; +you mustn't refuse." + +There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce, +old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not +know. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love +I have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine +that old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an +army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his +heart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in +this world I would rather have had than your message, but I must +refuse the offer." + +"Now Mac," I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you. +Scenery won't make up." + +"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it? +But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things +God made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not +think I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, if +you can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give +up one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix, +Bruce." + +"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?" I began +urging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card. +"Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life but +that farm, and you--heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one of +the greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe the +world something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressed +even the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You get +a curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call you +Alec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doing +work that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work that +no one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for other +people, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?" + +"Yes, Bruce." Mac said it sadly. "There's the rub. I was given +obligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now, +instead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I +want you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubborn +Islander. And there is home." + +He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from the +road nearly a quarter of a mile. Mac opened the gate, led the horse +through it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me. +There were tears in his brown eyes. + +"Is every one well?" said Mac hesitatingly. "Is everybody well--I mean +of the people I knew best back there?" he asked. I knew what he meant. + +"Yes, Mac, _she_ is well," I said, "and I know she is waiting." + +I had played my "trump card," but Mac was silent. + +The farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen door opened directly +on the farmyard, and around it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys, +ducks, geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate in the +flower-garden fence, and, passing through it, we walked along the +pathway before the house, so that I could enter through the front door +and be received in the "front room." Island opposition to affectation +or "putting on," as the people say, forbade calling this "front room" +a parlor. No one would think of doing such a thing, unless he was +already well along the way to "aristocracy." One dare not violate the +unwritten Island law to keep natural and plain. + +I noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the cultured accents of +the old college; but before others he spoke as the Islanders +spoke--good English, better English than that of the farmers I knew, +but flat--the extremity of plainness. I could not analyze that Island +brogue. It sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant only +because unsoftened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It struck +me as a sort of protest against affectation; as the Islander's way of +explaining, without putting it in the sense of the words, that he does +not want to be taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is a +notice that the user of it meets you man to man. So it reflected Mac, +and it reflected his people, unspoiled, unvarnished, true as steel, +full of rigid honesty; but undemonstrative, with the wells of +affection hidden, yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water. + +The "front room" had a hand-woven carpet on the floor, made of a +material called "drugget." A few old prints, in glaring colors, were +on the walls. There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking picture of +the dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an altar above and candles all +around it. It was a strange religious conceit. On another wall was a +coffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and framed, with a little +photograph of a young man in the center of the flowers. The chairs +were plain enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. It was +not Mac's kind of a room, at all. It made me shudder and wonder how +the scholar who loved his old book-lined college den and knew the old +masters, could even live near to it. + +Mac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who walked with a cane. +She was bent and wrinkled with age. I could see that she was blind. +She had a strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had only a +vague recollection of seeing as a boy, about her shoulders; and on her +head was a black cap with white ruching around her face. + +"My mother, Bruce," he said, very simply. + +As I took the old lady's hand, he said to her: "This is my old friend, +Professor Bruce, mother. He has come all the way from New York to see +me. I'll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sister has been +bedridden for years, Bruce." + +The old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. Mac smiled at me as he +led her to a chair and said: "Bruce does not look like a professor, +mother. He just looks like me." + +I could see all the Island respect for learning in the poor old lady's +deference. Mac left us, and his mother asked if I would not have some +tea. I refused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to the +hour of the evening meal. + +"So, you knew my son at college?" said the mother. + +"I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my dearest friend." + +The old lady began to cry softly. + +"I am so sorry," she said, "that he failed in his examinations, and +yet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, for it is a comfort to have him. +Ellie is a cripple and without Alec what would we do? Of course, if +he hadn't failed, I couldn't hope to keep him, so it is better, +perhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart boy and so anxious to get +on. It was a great disappointment to him; and then, of course, none of +us liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was not cut out for +something better than a farmer. But you must have liked him, when you +came all the way from New York to see him." + +I began to understand. + +That night I thought it all out in my little room, with the flies +buzzing around me and the four big posts standing guard over a feather +bed, into which I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac in +the morning. + +He had already done a good day's work in the fields, before I was up +for breakfast, so we went into the garden to thresh it out. + +"Mac," I said severely, "did you tell your mother and sister and the +people around here that you had failed in your examinations?" + +"Well, Bruce," he said haltingly, "I did not exactly tell them that, +but I let them think it." + +"Good Lord!" I thought, "the man who easily led the whole college." +But aloud: "Did you tell them you had no career open to you in New +York?" + +"Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too." + +"And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling scholarship you won, +or the offers that Yale made you?" + +"Oh, what was the use, Bruce?" said Mac desperately. "I know it was +wrong, but it was the only way I saw. Look here. When I got back home, +with all these letters after my name and that traveling scholarship to +my credit, I found sister as I told you she was--you'll see her +yourself this morning, poor girl--and mother blind. Brother, the best +brother that ever lived--it is his picture they have in that hideous +frame in the front room--died two months before I graduated. Bruce, +there was no one but me. If I had told the truth, they would not have +let me stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, sister never +wore a decent dress or a decent hat, and mother never had that thing +that every old lady on the Island prizes, a silk dress, just because +she saved the money for me. I told you that these people worship +learning after God." He put his hand to his eyes. "Bruce, I am lonely. +I have grown out of the ways of my people. But you wouldn't ask me to +grow out of a sense of my duty too?" + +"No, I don't want you to come with me, Mac," I said. "I am going back +alone. When you are free, the college is waiting. She can be as +generous as her son, and, I hope, as patient." + +Mac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with me again from its +summit over the waters of Pownal Bay. I understood now its appeal to +him. The waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his Promised +Land. Would Tea Hill, plain little eminence, be to Mac a new Mount +Nebo, from which he should gaze longingly, but never leave? + +Plain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, scholar with a great +mind, son and brother with heart of purest gold! I could not see you +through the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this your +Island of the good and true amongst God's children, but I could think +only of you as she passed the lighthouse, and the two tiny islands +that every one knows but no one visits, and moved down the Strait of +Northumberland toward the world that is yours by right of your genius, +that wants you and is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac, +though my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, so well, that +already had He given you treasures beyond a selfish world's ken to +value or to understand. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The City and the World and Other +Stories, by Francis Clement Kelley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CITY AND THE WORLD *** + +***** This file should be named 15444.txt or 15444.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/4/4/15444/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. 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